


The Girl And The Ghost

by OperaGoose



Series: Soul of Music [1]
Category: Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Everyone will probably be very OOC, F/M, Modern AU, confusing pseudonyms, semi-magic realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 19:13:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 76,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1316137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OperaGoose/pseuds/OperaGoose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reuploaded from FF.Net as a request. </p><p>When Christine Daae came to work at the Populaire Theatre, she did not expect to have her world turned on its head. She didn't expect to meet the Phantom, let alone her angel of music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Girl And The Ghost

* * *

**Soul of Music: The Girl and The Ghost**

**By OperaGoose**

**GENERAL DISCLAIMER: 'The Phantom of the Opera' belongs to Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber, both as a novel, movie and musical. Any other publically recognisable works belong to their respective owners. This is a work of entertainment, and no profit is being made. No copyright infringement is intended.**

* * *

**Chapter 1: Too Good To Be True**

* * *

Catherine frowned, following the theatre manager up what had to be the eighth flight of stairs she'd climbed in this stairwell. "You came with high recommendations from Professor Laney, by the way Miss de Night." He remarked brightly. "Usually we would not take on someone without experience for such a high position, but he assured me that you would be capable. We are grateful to find a competent replacement, especially on such a short notice." He said, barely out of breath despite the climb. 

She took a deep breath and took a few more steps. "I wasn't under the impression Laney thought so highly of me." She remarked. "Last I understood, he thought I was a laughing stock – the only female student he'd ever had the misfortune of having to teach." 

They had reached another landing and the theatre manager grinned at her brightly. "I must admit, having a female on the technical staff is quite surprising, but a refreshment, I do say." He said. He started flicking through his key ring. "This is the bio box. You will be working in here for the majority of your time." 

"What exactly is my position here, Mister Giles? Professor Laney wasn't exactly clear." She asked. 

"Please, call me Ray." He replied, starting his key ring over again and trying every other key. "Your official title is Lighting Technician and Sound Advisor." He answered her. "You'll operate the lighting desk during rehearsals, testing lights, recording lighting states, fixing levels." He listed off. "As for sound, well our Sound Technician is, in a word, lazy. You'll be doing all the thinking he's forgotten that the Assistant hasn't covered and he'll be the one getting all the glory." He grinned at her. 

Catherine nodded. Well, it wouldn't be much different than usual, then. "That sounds manageable." She conceded. 

"Ah, here's the key!" Ray announced suddenly, as the lock clicked. He pushed it open, and she followed him inside. 

It was...chaos. Catherine wrinkled her nose, but said nothing. There were mangled lighting instruments all over the place, and number of them looking like they'd been dropped from a decent height. A few eviscerated microphones and speakers covered almost every surface. There were scraps of paper, both official-looking and take-away-reminiscent tucked into nooks and a few food scraps shoved into crannies. An overweight man slept with a Zoo magazine covering his face. 

Ray cleared his throat, frowning at the state of the box. Zoo-face snorted loudly and jolted up, the magazine sliding to the floor. "Ray!" he greeted, "You didn't tell me you were coming up here today!" 

"I did." Ray corrected. "Twice. This is our new LT/SAd." He told the greasy man, pointing at Catherine. Lighting Technician/Sound Advisor she automatically translated in our head. 

Zoo-face snorted grotesquely and hocked a bit, before spitting into an old drink container. "But th's a girl, Ray." He slurred eventually. 

"Shocking. I had yet to notice." Ray answered dryly. "Miss de Night, this is our Sound Technician Joseph Burket. Joe, this is Catherine de Night, the graduand from the L-double-A." 

'Joseph Burket' grunted. "Old Laney's pulling one on us, Ray. 'S 'cause we didn't give 'is nephew a job. 'E's scr'wing w'th us." He told Ray rudely, ignoring Catherine's presence completely. 

"I have it on good confidence that Miss de Night is completely capable of completing any tasks involved with her position." Ray snapped tersely. 

"I could give 'er a few p'sitions m'self." Joseph slurred, eyes raking up and down her body. "A bit more to 'er than I usually like, but I'll m'ke an exception." He leered at her. 

Catherine merely arched an eyebrow at his vulgarity. "I believe that would be rather inappropriate, Mister Burket." She answered diplomatically. It was much better than what she was really thinking. 

Joseph huffed. "Snobby. Damn L.A.A. brats." He muttered. "I'll be at the bar, tell m' when Dan gets 'ere." He commanded Ray, before stumbling out of the room. He paused in the doorway. "B'the way Miss Deena, your firs' task 's t' tidy up th' box. 'S a tip." With that, he disappeared into the shadows of the staircase. 

Ray grimaced. "Drunk as a skunk at seven in the morning. He's usually out cold by three." He shrugged off his thoughts and ventured deeper into the box, sidestepping a particularly mangled Fresnel. "This is the lighting desk." He announced, pulling off the dust cover. Catherine almost sighed in relief at its familiarity. "Judging by your expression, this is nothing new?" 

"The desk at LAA was an AXIOM. Perhaps an older model, but it doesn't look like there have been too many changes." She dismissed casually. She looked through the window to the darkness beyond. "That's the theatre, I presume." 

"Yes, indeed. I'm running a little late in opening things up, but the house lights and the chandelier are on those two switches there. Flick them on and turn the faders up." He instructed. 

Catherine complied and flicked the switches, slowly pushing up the wall-mounted sliders. She looked through the window and her jaw dropped. 

The theatre was magnificent. First of all, it was huge! Decorated in brilliant reds and what she could only guess was real gold, it looked for too artistic to be a theatre. The sculptures and carvings on the proscenium and around the boxes were unfaultable, angels and muses and gods gazing approvingly over the magnificent place of arts. The crystal chandelier hung from the high, mural ceiling, a thing of magnificence and wonder by itself. She could do nothing but gape at the overall effect. 

Ray laughed aloud. "I take it, Miss de Night, that you have never seen the Populaire Theatre before?" he surmised. 

She nodded, numb. 

"The Populaire Theatre was revived from the old _Opéra Populaire_ building. Most of the architecture has been fully restored, after extensive wiring to make the electrics possible." Ray explained. 

Catherine slowly recovered from her awe. "Right. Okay. So, is there anything else I need to know?" she questioned. 

Ray opened his mouth to say something, then hesitated. He looked at a mangled spotlight on the floor and looked up with a nervous grin on his face. "I think that's all for now. I'll take you to see Mrs Greer about your accommodation." 

... 

Mrs Antoinette Greer was woman in charge of managing the on-site accommodation. The old ballet dormitories from the _Opéra Populaire_ and the dressing rooms had all been converted to studio suites for the staff of the theatre. The staff could live elsewhere, but the majority of them preferred to live on-site in case emergency rehearsals. 

Which, as Mrs Greer was explaining: "...happen more often than you would expect, Miss De Night." She advised. "There are often corrections that are required to be made, as close to immediately as possible. I suggest you keep your mobile phone on your possession at all times." She explained. "The contracted performers, mostly dancers or musicians, and stage hands live in the old ballet dormitories. Most of our technical staff chooses to live off-site, but you and the Sound Assistant will be living in converted dressing rooms." 

"The Sound Assistant? Joseph Burket?" she asked warily. 

Mrs Greer wrinkled her nose distastefully. "Mister Burket keeps a house across town. However, more often than not he can be found in the Theatre Bar." She explained. Catherine almost sighed in relief. "Mister Mabry is the Sound Assistant. He is a decent enough young man, mostly. You should not worry for your privacy." 

Catherine shrugged. "I haven't since I learnt Mister Burket lives elsewhere." She answered patiently. 

Mrs Greer gave her a wry smile and stopped outside a set of double doors. A small slide-in plaque stated plainly: 'Room 4: C. de Night.' "This is your new home for the next six months." She announced, handing her a key-ring with an old-fashioned metal key attached. "Should you have any problems with your room, my contact numbers are listed on the table. My office hours are between nine and four, but if I am out of office, leave a message." She instructed. "Your luggage should all be in your room. Welcome to the _Opéra Populaire_." She announced grandly, pushing the doors open. 

As Catherine stood gaping for the second time that day, Mrs Greer disappeared down the hallway. The room beyond the mahogany doors was...rather magnificent. The walls were classical decorative pink wallpaper, the furniture all mahogany with gold detailing and soft pink fabrics where necessary. There were polished floorboards in the main area, and plush-looking white carpet in the bedroom area. 

A second mahogany door led to the modest en suite, and she was pleased to notice the instant water heater tucked away in the corner – she enjoyed waking up to long, hot showers. Her two ratty suitcases and toiletries case were piled beside the front doors, and she pushed them all under the king-single bed to be dealt with later. She collapsed onto the couch and covered her eyes with an arm. 

This 'job opportunity' was turning out inexplicably wonderful. Beyond Mister Burket, she could think of no real fault. 

That, frankly, made her very suspicious. Despite what must have been glowing recommendations from Professor Laney, she found it unusual that a major – and obviously distinguished – theatre hired a rather inexperienced technician for what was apparently a high technical position. 

She reminded herself that it was only a temporary position while their official LT/SAd was away on extended leave – six months, and only three of them (the three rehearsal months) seemed to consist of any work before she passed the bundle over to a Lighting Operator for the remaining months that the show was running for. She frowned slightly to herself – what show was even going on, anyway? 

A musical, that much she had gathered. It seemed everybody else had expected somebody else to have told her the basic information on what was going on. She hoped it was something easy enough to piece together, regardless of Professor Laney declaring she could handle it. 

Her mobile buzzed against her leg and she jolted awake before pulling it out of her pocket. The screen announced it to be a phone call from Ray Giles and she clicked receive. "Catherine speaking." She answered. 

"Miss de Night, I hope you're settling well. The Lighting Designer would like to talk with you. He's in the auditorium." Ray explained. 

"Excellent. Just one question." Catherine said, pulling off her jumper as she stepped outside her room and closed the door behind her. 

"Shoot." 

"How the hell do I get to the auditorium from here?" she asked disparagingly. 

Ray's laugh reverberated out of the phone, sending a shiver down her spine. "I'll get someone to lead you. Stay outside your room." 

Within ten minutes, Catherine was creeped out. The hallways around her were cast with many shadows, and she swore they moved half the time. The other theatres she'd been were much smaller backstage than this – they certainly didn't have _staff accommodation_. Not that she should really complain about that, seeing as it saved her six month's worth of inner-city rent and living costs. 

She glanced to her right and nearly had a heart attack when she saw someone walking down the hallway. She clutched her chest as her heart tried to beat its way out of it. "Christ! You scared me." She told him as he slowed down with an apologetic smile. 

"Miss de Night?" he questioned. She nodded. "I'm your guide this morning. Otherwise, I'll be the Sound Assistant. My name's Greg Mabry." 

"I'm Catherine." She returned. Now that he was standing in the light from the lamp above her doorway, she could get a better look at him. He was good-looking in a plain sort of way. He had sandy blonde hair, shaggily cut a few inches long, and dull blue eyes that were scanning the hallway warily. He was dressed in black acid-wash jeans and a tight black t-shirt. He was okay, she conceded. "Shouldn't we get going?" 

He glanced at her. "Yes. Just hold on a second, I'm checking if..." he glanced at her, and then gave a last once-over through the hallway. "It seems clear. Okay, we're going to run because we're already late. Just follow me. Ready? One..." 

"What?" 

"...two..." 

"No!" 

"...three!" he bolted off down the hallway, and Catherine cried out in annoyance, following him as closely as she could while watching her feet to make sure she wouldn't trip over something inconveniently in the way. 

She scowled as she ran – how was she supposed to remember her way _back_ after this? "Brilliant plan, Mister Mabry." She muttered. 

"Call me Greg!" he corrected with a laugh. He began to slow down and gave her an easy grin. "I'll show you back later, but we're late." He started up a spiral staircase, and Catherine followed, a touch annoyed. "This is the left wing." He explained. "It's quicker to get from our rooms to the stage, rather than going all the way around to the foyer and into the seating of the auditorium." He added conversationally. 

"Ah-huh." She panted, catching her breath. That damnable jerk wasn't even breathing heavily! She re-tied her thick brown hair and followed him out onto the empty stage. 

"Ah! Miss de Night! Mister Mabry! Just on time!" Ray called to them. "Come on down here." They complied, and once Catherine was standing (frankly, being towered over) amongst the gathered men, Ray began. "Gentlemen, this is Catherine de Night, our new Lighting Technician. Miss de Night, this is Mark West, our Lighting Designer, and Daniel Lee, the Director. I assume Greg has already introduced himself." He introduced. 

"He has. It's a pleasure to meet you both." She said, offering her hand for each of the new men to shake. 

Mark West inclined his head as they shook. "The pleasure is ours. It is a refreshment to have a female face on the technical staff. I understand this is your first production?" 

Catherine nodded. "My first professional production. I worked in a school auditorium on weekly assemblies, plus I used to work with a community theatre in my home town on amateur plays." She explained at his expectant expression. 

"Oh? Lighting? Sound? Performance?" Mister Lee questioned. 

"All three, actually." She answered with a shrug. "Initially acting, but I got involved in the technical side of things in my later years." She added. 

"Interesting." Mister Lee replied in a tone of voice that clearly implied it wasn't. 

"Miss de Night, if you'll follow me over here, I'll give you a run-down of the lighting plans I've designed so far." Mark West changed the subject. 

Catherine frowned as she followed him – the initial _script read-through_ was tomorrow, and there was already a lighting plan? She was in way over her head. Either that, or the people were obsessive organizers. 

He went through a bundle of papers, talking plotting and levels and gels and light coverage. She nodded along, trying to commit what she could to memory. Greg, standing to the side with Ray and Mister Lee, gave her a reassuring smile. She kept a grimace from forming as she attempted to stay focused on Mark West explaining where the light needed to be sharp, and where it could be softer. 

After what seemed an eternity, his mobile buzzed and he left with his bundle of papers. 

"A bit overwhelmed?" Greg asked gently, guiding her to sit down while Ray argued with Mister Lee over available rehearsal hours. 

"A touch." She agreed weakly. 

Greg laughed. "Really, forget about that whole conversation – the plans will change a million times between now and the actual light hanging, then over and over again if _He_ has anything to say about it." Catherine frowned at the strange inflection, but said nothing. "The catch is to keep an ear out, your eyes open and to stay on your toes. Don't plan anything before the day it happens, and even then be adaptable." He advised. 

"Your life philosophy?" she asked dully. 

"Just in application to the Populaire." He answered with a grin. 

"Hey, question." She asked him. 

"Shoot." 

"Why are we keeping all those broken lights in the Bio Box?" she asked. "They don't look like they can be salvaged to me." She added. 

Greg frowned. "I thought we'd tossed them all already." He mused to himself. "Ray sent Maintenance up there to clean before, so it should be all clear by now." He assured her. 

... 

Dennis Finn was a short, plump man with a permanently haughty expression and a receding hairline. Greg had been kind enough to deconstruct him for her – he contributed the Populaire Theatre's success to himself and himself alone, and acted accordingly. If she was lucky, this would be one of the only times she'd have to see him. 

He was reading the newspaper when she tapped on the door. "Ah! Miss Night, do come in!" He said, folding up the paper. 

"Um, it's _de_ Night, sir." She corrected tentatively. 

"Ah, yes, of course. How silly of me. Have a seat." He said, pointing to the chair across the polished oak surface of his desk. As Catherine sat, he rummaged around in a desk drawer. He brought out a seemingly random piece of paper. "Ah, this is it." He told her. "I noticed your account details were not included in your other paperwork." He said. 

Catherine frowned. "What account details, sir?" she questioned. 

"Please, dear, call me Dennis! Why, your bank account details, of course." He told her patronizingly. She arched an eyebrow. "I simply called you in here to ask what name to write on your cheque." He noticed her confused expression. "I assume you are expecting a cheque, if you have not included your details." 

Realisation dawned. "I'm getting paid?" she asked, a little too loud. 

Dennis chuckled. "Why, of course! The Populaire Theatre is a successful establishment. Everyone working in this theatre is paid at competitive rates." 

Catherine was astonished, and now even more suspicious. She'd been under the impression the position was voluntary. Something had to wrong with this place. Where was the catch? 

"What catch, dear?" he asked absentmindedly, searching his desk for a pen. 

"Um, nothing." She brushed him off. Once he had found a pen and poised it above the paper, she spelt her name. 

"Thank you, Miss de Night." He said, unsubtly checking the paper for her name. "Now, I'm sure you're very busy. I'll let you get back to work." He dismissed, picking up his newspaper and placing it front of his face. 

Catherine left the office in contemplation. There had to be something amiss. This opportunity was proving too good to be true. Except for the six-day, nine-to-five week (which, admittedly, if she understood correctly, would most be spent in the bio box doing virtually nothing) and Burket, it was almost a dream come true. A rather ordinary dream, one side of her mind retorted sourly. 

"All done?" Greg asked, coming over. She nodded, and they started walking. "Great. Here, I grabbed this for you: a map of the Populaire Theatre." He announced grandly. He handed it over and let Catherine be daunted by its complexity a moment before saying: "I took the liberty of highlighting some paths for you. This is your room, and that's the quickest way to the stage...to the foyer...to the staff cafeteria. Now, I'm going to blow your mind for a moment – to get to the bio box from your room in under fifteen minutes you have to use..." he paused for dramatic effect. 

Catherine arched an eyebrow with an amused smile. 

"A secret passageway!" He pointed to a blue line that seemed to run into a wall. "Between a pillar and a no smoking sign, there's a portrait of some Prima Donna. Slide it to the left, and behind it there's a tunnel. Follow it straight without turning or going _down_ a flight of stairs, and you'll turn up a flight of stairs below the bio box." 

Catherine blinked wildly. "...and now there are secret passageways. Okay, enough!" she snapped tersely. "Seriously, Greg, what's the catch? What's so wrong with this place that they had to hire _me_?" she demanded. 

He gave her a weak smile. "Well, you're our fourth LT/SAd this year, so they're running a bad reputation for that position. On top of that, there's _Him_." He said weightily. 

Catherine frowned – Joseph Burket was enough to make her hate the place, she supposed. But she wasn't convinced. However, she let the matter drop – it had been a rather long day and she was exhausted. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 2: Music In the Night**

* * *

Catherine scowled, roused from a dream she instantly forgot. Somewhere in the distance, she could hear a violin playing an unfamiliar tune. Frowning in the total darkness of her room, she reached for the mobile she knew was on the bedside table. 

As enchanting and gentle as the music was, she was none too happy at hearing it at...2:27am. She dragged a hand over her face and put the phone back on the bedside table. A flash of light drew her attention, and she turned her bedside lamp on. Directly across the room on the far wall, a thick pink curtain hung. She frowned as she saw a sliver of something shiny peaking out of the right edge. 

With a sigh at her curiosity, she stood up and crossed the room to pull the curtain aside. A blackened mirror with a gilded frame was set into the wall from floor to ceiling. She sighed deeply as her fingers started to itch—she wished she hadn't seen the state of the mirror. Now she wouldn't get any sleep until she knew she had done her best to clean it. 

She quickly collected the cleaning supplies from the bathroom and started to clean the glass from the top, using a hard-backed chair as a stool. With her hands busy, it left her mind free to concentrate on the violin. It was slightly louder here, and the song had morphed somewhat. It was heart wrenching, the sweet notes gripping her mind and telling her a story of deep rejection and chronic loneliness. 

The age spots on the mirror blurred as tears formed and slipped down her face. She shook her head and started humming a nonsensical nursery rhyme to counter-act the troubling melody. 

She frowned, faltering to a stop when she realised she had began humming along to the unknown tune. She'd never heard a piece of music that had affected her so much. Not one without lyrics, anyway. 

She found herself humming along again, eyes drooping as it segued seamlessly into something that could only be called a lullaby. Yawning, she glared at the mirror that was still a grimy and put down the handful of paper towel she had been using. She couldn't stay awake with the violin trying to coax her into a peaceful rest. 

Who was playing that? She wondered as she crossed the room and got back into bed. The only person in this part of the theatre was Greg, and he didn't seem like the classical type. With another yawn she turned off the lamp and resolved to ask him at a decent time of the morning. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 3: Him**

* * *

In Catherine's dreams, she had been alone in a labyrinth of tunnels, searching for someone, anyone, as she was guided by the song she'd heard earlier that morning. She remembered the aching loneliness it created, five hours later as she leaned sleepily against the tiles and let the scalding shower water wash away the strangeness of the night. 

It didn't chase away the dreams, but it did soothe her tense muscles. She wasn't surprised by her discomfort – she had woken, frightened, from trapped dreams to find herself in a completely unfamiliar room. Plus, cleaning a mirror at the small hours of the morning when one should be sleeping was not a nice way to treat ones muscles. 

As she finished up and left the en suite, she glanced at the mirror as she passed. She either must've done better than she thought in her sleepy stupor, or the mirror had not been all that bad – there were only a few age spots on the lower half, and she could mostly ignore them...as long as she never looked at the mirror again. 

She pulled the curtain closed and moved to the bedroom, dressing in whatever black clothes were at the top of her suitcase and checked the time on her phone. Eight-oh-five. Perfect time to go looking for that secret passageway she was supposed to use. 

It was dark and oppressive in the back passages, and she ignored the urge to hug her arms by forcing herself to hum. She was unnerved to realise she was humming the lonely tune she'd heard first last night, and glanced around her as the air seemed to shift. A shadow twitched, and she whipped around to see what it was. The shadow moved with her, and she laughed at her paranoia: she was jumping at her own shadow now! 

This theatre _was_ creepy, she conceded, but most older ones were. The first time she worked in any theatre, she'd been freaked out as well, jumping at every creaking floorboard or groaning wall. She'd eventually told herself that everything was normal, and soon she felt them to be a second home, almost as much as her hometown theatre still felt like her first. 

She hoped, considering how long she was due to stay here for, that she could grow comfortable with this space soon. Until then, she counted her second right turn and hoped she could find the portrait soon. A wooden creak resounded to her left, and she gasped, covering the sound with her hand. 

She started humming again, louder this time. She kept her eyes flicking over the wall, looking for the painting of a stuffy-looking woman. 

"Catherine..." a voice whispered, echoing down the hallway. She hummed a little louder, resisting the urge to block her ears. "Catherine..." it repeated, louder this time. 

She closed her eyes from the shadows, humming as loudly as she could. 

"Catherine?" a close voice asked, before a hand touched her shoulder. 

She screamed, and whirled around to face her attacker... "Greg?" she asked. He grinned, and she slapped him on the arm. "You really scared me, you ass!" she told him, upset. "Don't sneak up on me – this place is creepy enough without you adding to things." She scolded him. 

"Sorry." He apologized, looking a little guilty. "Here, the portrait is just a little further up." He said, gesturing with a hand for her to keep going. She scowled and continued. He fell into step beside her. 

Remembering her resolve to find out who the unknown composer was, she asked: "Were you listening to music last night?" 

He frowned at her. "No." He answered, as if that was a stupid idea. 

"Really?" she asked, confused. 

"I definitely wasn't. I never listen to music in this place. Why?" he asked, wary. 

"I heard music last night." She answered. "I thought it was yours. Are you sure?" she checked. 

"What time was that?" he evaded. 

"Two-thirty. Roundabouts there." She answered. 

"Well, then, it must have been..." Greg stepped on a creaking floorboard, and Catherine glanced at him to see a contemplative expression on his face. She figured he couldn't find an explanation, and he slowed to a halt. "That's it." He said, pointing to a portrait. 

Following his earlier instructions, she entered the passageway and let him him lead the way. 

... 

Thankfully, Joseph Burket was not in the bio box. Catherine had begun the day by placing the headset of a radio-mike over her head and waiting. No instructions came. She turned the decrepit old computer on and took a seat beside it, wondering slightly whether she was supposed to have done something. Within the next half an hour, she was playing solitaire and humming nursery songs to herself. 

Greg popped in every hour, chatting briefly about nothing in particular and making no comment about her lack of work before leaving again. She jumped clear out her seat when Ray's voice came from the headset at just past eleven. "Ray. Check?" 

She pressed the speak button warily. "Uh. Catherine, check?" she asked doubtfully. 

Greg's voice crackled to life in her ear. "Greg. Check." He announced. 

"The gang's all here, then." Ray's voice commented. "Catherine, the auditorium will be in use in half an hour. Turn on the lights so Maintenance can do a quick sweep?" 

"Can do." She answered, slipping easily into her work now that she had some. She flicked the switches and pushed the faders up, her awe lessened but not nonexistent as the theatre revealed itself. Her eyes immediately flicked to the stage when a shadow twitched. She brushed it off – it must've been Greg doing something or other – what exactly did that guy do? 

She turned back to the computer but stared in boredom at the half-finished game of solitaire. With a sigh, she closed that window and stood up, looking around the bio box. She could bear it now that the room was clean...ish. Well, as much that can be expected in a bio box. She pulled back the dust cover of the sound desk and studied it for a moment, before surrendering it to a lost cause. There were far too many knobs and sliders for her to even begin to contemplate. She noted with disapproval that everything had been left on – that certainly wasn't good for energy conservation. 

She left it alone – she was not master of the sound desk, she hadn't the right to mess around with it. She heard clomping footsteps coming up the stairs and turned to look at Greg as he entered through the door. She arched an eyebrow at him, but said nothing. 

He grinned. "Howdy." He greeted lamely. She scoffed and turned back to studying the sound desk. "So, lunch at one." Greg commented. 

"Yep." She agreed, non-committal. 

"Do you need me to show you to the Staff Cafeteria?" he hinted. 

Catherine turned to look at him, challenge evident in the arch of her eyebrows. "Greg, are you trying to crack on to me?" she demanded. 

"Uhh..." he looked at his feet. "No. No, I wasn't." He clearly lied. 

"Good. Besides, I already have plans this lunchbreak." She decided it was best not to mention that those plans were a train ride across to pick up her dry-cleaning. Let him surmise what he would from her words. 

"I see." He said coldly. 

Catherine ignored that and turned back to the sound desk as he exited the room. Guilt squirmed in her stomach at the harshness of her rejection, but she told herself that it was necessary. She couldn't just temporarily attach herself to someone knowing that it would end – and end it would. From what she'd gathered from him, he was lax and an out-of-sight-out-of-mind type. She knew that once she left, he would forget her in favour of his next object of affection. 

... 

There'd been no time for lunch, and Catherine was far too scared of the wrath of Maintenance to bring food into the bio box. Her interrupted sleep and lack of food made her irritable. Fuming in annoyance, she sat in her chair by the computer and turned her headset on. 

There was a table set up on the stage, and eighteen people sat around with scripts open before them. She stood and flicked the stage-mike switch, jumping when voices came out of a speaker mounted into the wall. She watched the stage carefully, looking for who spoke. 

A slender blonde spoke next, halting and very obviously reading from a script: "Is this many geese a gaggle?" she asked. 

A rather handsome man replied: "How long have you had this?" 

The blonde replied: "I've had this since...I don't know when I've had this since." 

"My daughter!" the handsome man cried. 

"My sister?!" a man further up the table demanded, disgusted. 

Catherine started, staring at the speaker. What sort of musical was this? Confused, she stood to turn off the stage mike when an explosion of noise replaced the actors speaking. Half the cast jumped from their seats, terrified. The blonde girl folded her arms and glared across the theatre up to the bio box. 

She hadn't pressed anything! Her heart raced, and her breathing seemed to fall into harmony with the dramatic rise and fall of notes. The organ music was awe-inspiring, but somewhat frightening all the same. But...something about the lingering notes cried out to her sympathy. 

"Good afternoon, cast!" a deep, penetrating voice echoed from everywhere. Catherine started, looking around for another hidden speaker in the room. She glanced at the sound desk, and saw the green and red lights indicating volume rising and falling with the unfamiliar music...someone had hi-jacked the desk! With annoyance, she turned the amp off at the power point. 

The music immediately ceased. The voice continued. "Welcome to my Opera House. I shall be keeping a close eye on your production, and if I do not find something to my satisfaction, it _will_ be changed. I remain, ladies and gentlemen, your obedient servant, O.G." The voice echoed out, and there was a long silence. 

Pandemonium erupted on the stage, and Catherine watched without hearing as the blonde started yelling about something. Her stomach growl interrupted her musings, and her racing heart caught up to her. She gasped in hyperventilating breaths, and practically punched the 'talk' button on her radio-mike with her thumb. " **What the _hell_ is going on?** " she demanded. 

... 

"A ghost?" Catherine asked, sceptical. She was sat in Ray's office, drinking from a mug of ginger tea, while Ray and Greg explained what had happened. So far, she didn't believe it. "So, you're telling me that the Populaire Theatre is haunted by a spectre that calls himself the Opera Ghost?" she asked. Ray nodded silently. "...and this wasn't something I should've been told _before_ he scares the living daylights out of me?!" she demanded, furious. "It's not like you didn't have an opportunity! I asked if there was anything I needed to know and you said no! You _lied_ to me!" 

Greg gasped, blinking at Ray in shock. "You didn't _tell_ her?" he asked. 

"The Opera Ghost does not always involve himself with every production that goes on. So far, he'd been quiet about this one – I thought he might've left it alone. I didn't expect him to make a grand announcement out of it, either. He usually contents himself with letters." Ray mused. 

"Letters? The ghost writes letters?" she asked dubiously. 

"He does." Ray agreed uneasily. 

"You realise someone's messing with you, right?" she demanded sourly. 

"I beg your pardon?" Ray gasped, shocked at the harsh tone being used by the previously rather meek Miss de Night. 

"It's someone who works in this theatre. Probably on the tech staff." She remarked. 

"Why would you say that?" Greg asked suspiciously, moving to sit closer to her eagerly. 

"That music? The organ music? That was coming through _our_ sound system." She told them both impatiently. "I turned of the desk, and the music went away." 

"I did wonder what happened to it." Greg mused. "But what about his voice?" he asked eagerly. 

"My assumption is he has a separate microphone set up somewhere." She told them pointedly. "This is stupid, okay? It's just someone messing with you." 

Ray hummed a flat note and sat down in his desk chair. "Miss de Night, while that may be the case, the Populaire Theatre has learnt to take the ghost very seriously." He told her. "When the Populaire first re-opened as a theatre, I was working as a lowly stage hand, and the manager did not take the ghost seriously. He ignored his advice and dismissed his warnings. 'Accidents' started to happen." 

Greg sat down in another chair, watching the story with wide, enthusiastic eyes, while Catherine arched an eyebrow unimpressed. 

"It started with falling sandbags, and then progressed on to lights. When he was still being ignored, he moved on to the set. We had to rebuild everything at least once, but the manager still refused to budge. After that...the Opera Ghost started attacking people. He attacked many of the backstage staff, including pushing myself off the catwalks. Mister Burket fell from a ladder and broke both his legs and fractured his collar bone. Nothing more was said about the ghost, but the manager followed all of his reasonable commands." 

Catherine's expression had shifted into a frown during his speech, and she crossed her arms under her chest. Something just didn't seem right. "Has anybody ever spoken to him?" she asked. 

Greg and Ray both stared at her patronizingly. Finally, Ray answered: "He's a ghost, Miss de Night. How does one find a ghost to speak with him?" he asked cryptically. 

She scowled. "Do you even listen to yourself? How does a ghost push people from catwalks and ladders, destroy sets, and write notes or hi-jack a sound system? He is clearly not a ghost." She told him rationally. 

"Miss de Night...with all due respect, we've dealt with the situation for fifteen years. Everything we've done has worked effectively, and I don't think we can benefit anything from changing our methods now." He told her firmly. 

"Fifteen years?" Catherine echoed sadly. "No one's spoken to the ghost in fifteen years?" The haunting tune of that lonely song came back to her, and her heart twisted painfully. 

Greg frowned. "Man or ghost, Catherine, he's never exactly tried to befriend the Populaire Theatre." He added calmly. 

Catherine scowled at him. "Well, it seems that's mutual." She turned her attention back to Ray and stood up. "Well, you've explained the situation now. It's half past five, and I believe we're now running into my free time." She said coldly. 

"Of course." Ray agreed. "Enjoy your evening." He dismissed them both. Catherine let Greg lead the way out. When she was at the door, Ray called her name. She turned around, and he was rummaging in his drawer for something. He pushed a letter across the desk and she crossed the room to pick it up. "The Opera Ghost instructed me to give that to the next Lighting Technician I hired about a month ago. Since you know about him now, I think it's a good idea that I give it to you." 

She picked it up and frowned at the leering skull of red wax that served as the seal. "Thanks." She said curtly, before putting it in her pocket and going to leave once more. 

"Miss de Night? Another letter arrived in my office this morning. Perhaps you should read it?" Ray suggested pointedly, pushing a letter in similar paper to the envelope across the table. 

She picked it up and frowned sourly. It read almost exactly like Professor Laney's last conversation to her: it claimed that a female technician was unfit to work in a technical position at a theatre like the Populaire (he called it the " _his_ Opera House"), and that a more suitable male technician was to be selected for the position as soon as the current production had concluded. She pushed it back across the table. "Is that all, Mister Giles?" He shook his head, and she left. 

Greg was waiting for her outside the hall, and she was reminded sourly of a clingy puppy. And usually she loved puppies! 

She thought of the Opera Ghost as she walked. She didn't buy into it, really – it couldn't be a 'ghost'. Ignoring the fact that she didn't _believe_ in ghosts, even if she did, the proof all pointed him to being human – a man. An incredibly lonely man. Who was a sexist pig who wouldn't give her a chance. Who, if he had written the piece of music he announced himself with, was a marvellous composer. She faltered a step as realisation dawned. Of course... "Greg. The music I heard last night." 

He turned to look at her, his eyes wary. "What about it?" he asked. 

She looked him squarely in the eyes. "It was him, wasn't it? The Opera Ghost?" she asked. He looked around the hallway nervously. "The Opera Ghost was the one playing the music, wasn't he, Greg?" she demanded, her voice hardening. 

He sighed. "Yes, okay? I think it was. Now, can we please not talk about this? _He_ could be listening." 

She scowled at him, but nodded curtly. 

... 

Catherine stared in annoyance at the letter. It was really no wonder why nobody tried reaching out to the Ghost if he communicated like this all the time. If she didn't know any better (if she hadn't heard the music) she would think he was just a badly dispositioned jerk. But she knew that loneliness was a main cause of the curt manner in which he wrote. 

The letter was short, to the point, and rudely blunt. In it, he 'welcomed' the new technician to his Opera House and warned her that if her work was not up to his standard, he would have no choice but to convince her to improve her efforts until he was satisfied. Signed off with an elegant, elaborate 'O.G.', it made for effrontery, but also forced obedience. 

Still, she had to wonder – what had happened that made him so immediately push away any newcomer? She resolved not to let herself be intimidated into hatred, as it had appeared Ray had been. Although, if he decided to push her off a catwalk, she might harbour some sour feelings – that was understandable. 

She put the letter in the desk of the elegant vanity desk she was seated at. She drummed her fingers against the polished wood and stared around the room – she was bored. She hummed a tune reminiscent to the Moonlight Sonata, and turned in her seat to take in the room. 

She checked the time and sighed. It was seven-thirty, and far too early to go to bed. With nothing better to do, she went out into the backstage. Turning left down the hallway, she began to walk. 

Ten minutes later, she remembered how frightened she was of the Populaire, and why it was a bad idea for her to go wondering around any time of day, let alone at night. Every noise she made (and some she could swear she didn't) was magnified in the silence, and echoed down the hallways. 

She squeaked in fright when a rat ran across her path, and whirled around intent to return to her room...only to figure out she had no clue where she was. She looked left and right down the hallway, disoriented and suddenly not so convinced she was even facing the right direction. 

A floorboard creaked to her right, she screamed and ran in the opposite direction, turning some corners in attempts to throw off whomever it was following her. She slowed to a halt when she realised what an idiot she was being, and that she was now even more lost than before. A shadow twitched in her peripherals, and her breath caught in fear. She hurried to the wall where she could see an electric torch mounted – for her convenience it seemed. 

She turned it on its highest level and looked where she had seen the shadow move. There was nothing there, but she whirled again when she heard a floorboard creak behind her. A scan of the floor in that direction revealed nothing and she whimpered in fear. A rustle of fabric to her left, and she whirled, searching. She was terrified – she couldn't rationalize any of this, there was no one here! She felt tears pricking in her eyes and she looked around to realise her torch was the only source of light left. 

Taunting her with her thoughts, the torch clicked off. Terrified, she dropped it to the floor and backed up slightly, only to bump into something firm and unyielding. She whimpered in fright and stumbled forward slightly. "Just a wall, it was just a wall..." she told herself, her voice cracking. 

"Catherine..." a voice whispered in her ear. She screamed and whirled around to face it, only to have her ankle crack loudly and her legs give out. She thumped to the floor, whimpering though it didn't really hurt all that much. She scooted back until she felt the wall to her back, and wrapped her arms around her knees, rocking back and forth. She sobbed in fright and desperation, tears rolling down her face. 

The tension in the air seemed to change from frightening, to...sorrowful. She felt warmth near her side, and soft fingertips brushed away falling tears. While a moment ago, this would have probably made her pass out in fear, it seemed a comfort now. An apology, almost. 

It was pitch black, so she closed her eyes anyway and started humming. It was the lullaby the ghost had played last night, and the warmth beside her stilled, a hand frozen on her face as it brushed away the last tear. The softest sigh and a ghost of breath hit the tear tracks on her face. "You heard." A vaguely familiar voice said, almost reverent. 

The air moved and the warmth was gone. After a moment, the picture behind her eyelids was lightened slightly, and she opened her eyes to see her torch pointing so it lit up a panel in the wall...that had a map of the theatre nailed to it. 

She sighed in relief, and whispered a soft "thank you" into the seemingly empty hallway. 

... 

She woke up at 2:27 in the morning again, roused by now-familiar music. The song that cried loneliness out to her was being played, this time on a piano...or an organ? She turned on the bedside lamp to make sure she would not trip over anything on the floor, and crossed the room to the full-length mirror. The mirror that was visible...because someone had pulled the curtain aside. 

The age marks did not worry her this time, as she sat with her back to the mirror and let the music wrap itself around her mind. She closed her eyes and let the tune move her, until she found herself unconsciously humming along with it. 

Her eyes fluttered open when she heard a voice singing wordlessly. A beautiful, magnificent, _enchanting_ voice singing along to the ghost's song...it _was_ the ghost! She frowned as she let the voice possess her attention – the ghost is what everyone else named him. She didn't want to follow their example of closed-minded hate and indifference. But what else? Spook? Spectre? 

' _Phantom..._ ' a voice in her mind whispered gently. ' _He's there, the Phantom of the Opera..._ ' it sung, to the tune of the organ music from earlier that day. 

Her thoughts drifted away as the wordless singing became lyrical. She couldn't quite hear the words, but they gripped her, consuming her thoughts entirely. The sound of his voice...so sad...but, yet...reverent? Hopeful? The song finished, once more segueing into that beautiful lullaby that made her suddenly so tired. 

She stood and drifted back to her bed, turning the lamp off by instinct rather than any conscious thought. She silently wished that the Phantom would sing along to her lullaby, but said nothing as she pulled her blankets back up over herself and leaned into the pillows. 

She was humming along with the lullaby as she drifted off to sleep, only to dream once more of the labyrinth. She travelled along, still searching, called along by the Phantom's song of loneliness. She realised with a start that she was looking for the Phantom himself, and woke. 

The time on her phone read 7:30 am and she groaned – she'd have no time for breakfast this morning either, but at least she could actually eat something at lunch. She turned on the bedside lamp, silently lamenting the absence of a window, and stared strangely at the curtain across the room. Something was wrong there, but she couldn't put her finger on it. 

She shook her head and went into the shower. The realization dawned as she woke up properly, and she ran out to the curtain with shampoo still in her hair – the curtain had been open last night! She was sure she hadn't closed it. But then... 

' _He's there, the Phantom of the Opera..._ ' the voice in her head sung, sweet and high. 

She went back into the shower, the events of the previous night coming back to her as she finished her morning routine. The Opera Ghost that everyone was so hung up about had been following her, tormenting her, but in the end he had comforted her when she had been in tears. 

' _You heard..._ ' his voice echoed in her memory. What on earth had he meant? Of course she'd heard...she'd been humming his melody all day, after all. She frowned. Two days in the theatre and it was madness already. What would today bring? 

  


* * *

**Chapter 4: Opera Ghost**

* * *

Beneath the fifth cellar, a ghost growled under his breath. He tossed the short missive into his fireplace and glared as it curled into ash and embers. Someone was moving into the Carlotta Suite, or so Antoinette informed him. He frowned and turned back to his lair, looking disdainfully at the sheets of music from the latest production scattered on the floor. 

True, his Opera House was in need of a new Lighting Technician, since had...disposed, of the last one. But the use of the Carlotta Suite alerted him of a disturbing fact – the room would only be used to house a female. He wondered what Mister Giles was playing at, hiring a _woman_ to the employ of technicians. His Opera House was not to be used as a mockery! 

He gathered his cloak from beside his organ, and swung it around his shoulders as he left his lair. As Antoinette had explained, the girl was arriving today, and he intended to scare her away before she got any ideas of settling in – if that slob Sound Technician didn't before he got the chance. 

The girl entered through the back way. Mister Giles was there to greet her, but he seemed surprised when she entered – had he been expecting a male also? "You are the technician Professor Laney recommended?" he asked, sounding rather confused. 

The girl, looking meek and probably more than a little overwhelmed, nodded. "Catherine. Catherine de Night." She introduced herself. For a reason he could not quite explain, he did not frighten her right away. Perhaps it was the way she held herself – she looked uncomfortable and nervous, but with a determined set to her shoulders and a purposeful stride in her walk as Mister Giles led her to the stairwell going up to the bio box. 

He slipped through one of his passageways and followed them up the stairs through the gloom. He was being very obvious about it, as well, but the girl was focussing her attention between what Mister Giles was staying, and climbing the many flights of stairs. The ghost sneered at her: if she was struggling to climb these stairs, how would she fair with the maze of his backstage corridors? Still, he had to give her some recognition for the fact that she said nothing about her obvious struggle. 

He grinned, glad that he had laid out all the broken lights he could find in the box. It would unsettled the Theatre Director, and confuse this girl into asking why they were there. He was somewhat pleased to note that Burket was already in the box, sleeping and having added to the mess with his own rubbish. 

The girl took in the mess, but did not say anything. When she was introduced to Burket, she was polite and diplomatic, even when he was making rather crude suggestions. The ghost frowned, hidden within the wall. This girl was tougher than he thought. 

He wrinkled his nose in disgust as Burket left the room – that man hardly served a purpose, and there was nothing he did in his job that the Fool didn't have to end up re-doing. 

He made sure to listen carefully as the girl revealed the theatre – what did she think of his domain then? He was perturbed to hear only silence. Then, Mister Giles laughed. "I take it then, Miss de Night, that you have never seen the Populaire Theatre before?" he asked with amusement. The ghost frowned at the name, always rather disgusted by it. If they were to steal the name of his Opera House, why did they insist on putting such inferior creations on the stage as – he shuddered – _musicals_? 

He listened once more as Mister Giles gave a very brief explanation of his Opera House's origins, before the girl questioned whether she needed to know anything else. There was a pause, and he arched an eyebrow expectantly – _go on_ , he encouraged silently, _tell the girl about the Opera Ghost_. "I think that's all for now." The man replied, instead. 

The ghost scowled, how _dare_ he? This was **his** Opera House and he deserved the recognition! 

...unless the girl had already been told? Perhaps the Professor they both had mentioned had already warned her against the infamous spectre of the Opéra Populaire. Then why had she still come? Shaking off the thought, he raced through a not-so-secret passage (the Fool knew of it, unfortunately) to await the arrival of Antoinette and the girl. 

He hid in the shadows, waiting, and expectant. The girl followed behind the fast-paced Antoinette, clearly exhausted but still refusing to say a word of complaint. He frowned, but bided his time. He studied her carefully as she walked. The determination in her stride had disappeared, and she was dragging her feet slightly. She was petite, with long brown hair pulled out of her face with no real enthusiasm. A pair of expressive brown eyes were set in a beautiful porcelain-doll face. She was feminine, yes, but not in comparison to the twits in the ballet corps, which he realised he had been expecting. 

The conversation between the two females drifted to halt as they arrived outside the Carlotta Suite. Antoinette glanced at him, her frown increasing, and he realised he had slipped from the shadows too far, and he slunk back in. Antoinette explained to the girl how she could be contacted and ended, rather over-dramatically, he noted, with the words: "Welcome to the Opéra Populaire!" 

He only had time to notice the girl's awed expression before Antoinette was standing in front of him with a stubborn expression. "Why, may I ask, are you here to see the new Technician, when you did not afford any others the opportunity?" she demanded in a hushed voice. 

"You may not ask, Madam." He returned curtly. They stood at a stand-off for some time. Eventually, he conceded. "I was angered to know that the so-called Theatre Director would insult my establishment by hiring a female technician." He answered carefully. The furious arch of Antoinette's eyebrow showed her anger at his prejudice. "I had planned to...shall we say, discourage her from staying." 

"Had planned to?" Antoinette echoed, musing. "Your plans have changed, then?" 

With carefully guarded surprise, he realised that they had. "She can stay." He agreed, turning away and melting further into the shadows. He paused with a foot in the opening of a secret passage. "For now." 

"I'm glad you're giving her an opportunity. I'm sure she'll be a competent replacement." She remarked honestly. 

He scowled. " _That_ is for me to decide." He said curtly, before disappearing. 

Hidden in his box, the ghost surveyed the Theatre Director's movements as he paced back and forth, looking around the auditorium nervously. He was clearly expecting some sort of wrath, but the ghost did not pander to his expectations. If Mister Giles did not acknowledge his ghost, why would he acknowledge the Theatre Director? 

The logic in that was flawed. 

He waited – the director of this new... _musical_ (he shuddered) was coming in within the next half an hour, to have a final survey of the venue before rehearsals started. Mr West, the lighting designer whose work he was constantly disappointed in, arrived after some time with a collection of papers, and spoke quietly to Mister Giles, before going to sit down on one of the chairs. 

Mister Giles had obviously come to the conclusion that the ghost was not going to berate him, and pulled his mobile telephone from its holder on his belt. He pressed a few buttons, and the monotonous tone of 'ringing' resounded. The Theatre Director did, after all, have a much complained-about habit of talking on 'speaker-phone'. 

Luckily, it didn't ring for very long before a voice answered: "Catherine speaking." The ghost leaned forward more – she didn't sound like that, did she? Mister Giles informed her that she was required in the auditorium. "Excellent." She replied. "One question." Mister Giles gave her leave to proceed. "How the hell do I get to the auditorium from here?" 

He laughed loudly, amused. The girl certainly had an amusing way of expressing herself. He noted with displeasure that he has allowed it to be audible and sunk further into the shadows as the damnable Lighting Designer and disloyal Theatre Director glanced in the direction of his box. He'd been very careless today – he'd almost been spotted twice, actually having been spotted by Antoinette. 

The ghost waited, watching the stage warily for the girl's arrival. Mister Giles had rung the Fool to guide her, and that boy was always fond of his appearances on the stage. When the two of them finally arrived, the Fool strolled on stage like he owned it, and the girl followed him breathlessly, tying her hair back up. 

She was cordial, as always, when being introduced to Mister West and the Director. He was interested to learn of her history in the theatre – a community theatre, though it was. She should have some idea, then, of the work that she would be required to do. He growled quietly when the Director patronized the girl, but Mister West swept her away to discuss the lighting plan. 

Without looking at the diagrams, the ghost knew he would have to change the design. It was completely useless, ignoring the fact that the script called for three houses on the stage, rather than a centrepiece. Half of his mind composing the letter to Mister West, he watched as the girl and the Fool spoke, pleased to note that the girl actually _had_ found the lights unusual. Their conversation was quickly closed by the Theatre Director, who explained to the girl the specifics she was required to do over the next six months in their employ. 

The ghost found himself frowning. Was the girl only contracted for six months? He shook his head – that was good! He didn't _want_ a female on his technical staff. 

The Fool took the girl to the Staff Cafeteria for lunch, and the ghost waited until the Director left before heading back beneath his Opera House. The afternoon was beginning to lull, and he was getting tired. He couldn't accurately remember the last time he slept, and he let the tiredness claim him. 

... 

He sat at his organ, fingers splayed on the keys. There was music echoing in his head, but he was not inspired to play. He contemplated. He had lived on music, could hear music where no one else could. Yet why did he play? No one ever listened – when the Fool had first arrived, he had complained that he heard noises from beneath him. _Noises_! 

The Fool had dared to call his music noise, when the music he listened to was nothing more but crashing drums, weeping guitars and screaming voices. Once the Fool had returned to his room to find every CD he owned smashed, he said no more about the ghost's music. To make sure he didn't incur any further insult, he had walled up the passageway to the Piangi Suite so the Fool _could not_ complain. 

But since then, no one ever spoke of his music. Not even to complain. 

With a sigh, he stood. The music he heard called for his violin, and he rescued it from underneath the sheets of insult to music from his Opera's House's last... (shudder) musical. He quickly checked the tuning – the environment down here was not wonderful for the sensitive violin. With a sigh, he let the music flood from the instrument. 

He heard movement, and frowned, not faltering in his music as he nudged a switch with his elbow and brought up a screen to show the cameras he had posted along his tunnels. A few more knocks on the elbow, and he saw an abnormal light in the passage leading to... the Carlotta Suite. He should have known. 

More sounds of movement, and the curtain was pulled aside to show the girl frowning at the half-silvered-mirror. She disappeared, and came back with a handful of paper towel and the Antoinette's favoured mirror cleaner. Well, he conceded, watching her scrub at the glass, the mirror was very aged. 

He closed his eyes. It was too hard to play his music, to watch someone and play his music, knowing that no one listened to it. 

He threw his eyes open in outrage: the girl was humming! Humming some repetitive, annoying ditty during his music! He turned his glare to the screen, only to have his anger ripped away. She was crying! The girl was crying. Catherine was crying, listening to his music. He listened, keeping his music playing. She was still humming, but now she was humming along. 

His stomach twisted guiltily: she looked exhausted. He had woken her up and brought her to tears. 

It was just courtesy, then, that he send her back to sleep again. He reached for a lullaby, threading it through his current melody, until a seamless transition had occurred. It worked, and when he had only played a few bars, Catherine was yawning and putting down her cleaning supplies. He did not stop, continuing even after she had gotten into bed and shut the lamp off. 

He continued to play, even as he switched off the screens and started walking. He went beyond his lair, walked through the labyrinth of tunnels, until he came to the hallway before the Carlotta Suite. In what most would consider pitch darkness, he could clearly see the sleeping reclined form of the girl, Catherine. She was, for the first time he'd ever seen, peaceful. 

He let the lullaby draw itself to a natural conclusion, and placed his violin down on a ledge. He unlatched mirror and slid it aside, entering the room silently. 

He stood beside the edge of the carpet, watching the girl sleep. An unconscious frown was forming on her face, and she rolled over onto her side, coming precariously close to falling out of the king single bed. He gasped, silently, repressing the urge to rush to catch her when he became aware of it. She was fine – she had balanced herself. 

A scowl formed as she began humming his music. Humming! How dare she belittle his music by _humming_. He grudgingly admitted to himself that at least she was humming in key, unlike most would have. She rolled over again, whimpering slightly in distress. 

He frowned, freezing his muscles as he realised he was taking a step forward. What was he doing? Standing and watching this...this... _girl_! Watching her sleep when he should've been frightening her away! 

He tossed his cloak as he turned and headed straight back towards the mirror. He closed it furiously behind him and collected his violin, hurrying down the tunnels back to his lair. He put the violin away in its case and sat at the organ, letting the furious music he heard transfer through the organ. 

What was he doing? He was supposed to be forcing her to leave, not worrying that she was woken up, and cleaning the mirror and...crying... 

The music slowed, becoming more sombre. Antoinette had been rather disappointing by not replacing the glass of the mirror – he doubted that she had done any more than clean the curtains. The glass sheet in the unused Sofia Suite was much cleaner than that. 

With a distressed growl, he finished the song he was playing and headed up through the tunnels. He stopped outside the Sofia Suite, unsealing the frame and carefully removing the glass. He couldn't have _anyone_ thinking that his Opera House was tarnished. Carefully balancing the mirror, he took it through the tunnels up to the Carlotta Suite. 

He replaced the glass as quietly he could, glancing back at the girl to make sure she was still sleeping. She was restless, but did not wake. Every so often, she would hum a bar of his music. 

Once the mirror was in place, he slid it open to ensure that it still worked seamlessly and silently. He stepped through the room, coming to a stop outside the perimeter of carpeting again. She whimpered in fear, tossing and turning, clearly distressed. Taking a deep breath, he began to vocalise his lullaby wordlessly. She calmed, lying still between the pale pink cotton sheets. 

He drifted off quietly, watching her sleep. 

He scowled when he realised what he was doing, and swept back behind the mirror, sliding it shut with one jerking movement. He was _not_ supposed to be concerned with the girl and her sleeping habits. He would _not_ be so interrupted again! 

... 

He was...distracted! He kept glancing at the screen which, even though the camera did not pick up any light, was trained on the hallway of the Carlotta Suite. He was _trying_ to play the closest thing to a love duet from the latest... musical, but his attention kept being drawn elsewhere. The girl was supposed to begin work at nine and it was already six thirty. If she slept in much longer, she wouldn't have time to eat breakfast. 

He scowled at himself, and turned back to the organ. He began at the beginning again, playing the notes and he wrinkled his nose – the score was not one of Sondheim's greatest achievements. He heard movements from the Carlotta Suite and froze with his fingers on the keys halfway through a bar. 

Light blossomed on the screen, and his eyes flickered to it immediately. The girl slid out of bed and crossed out of view to the right of the mirror– straight into the en suite, then? He hurried through the tunnels and stepped into the Carlotta Suite. She had done nothing to disturb the room, except for an unmade bed and two suitcases, but her presence could be heard like an out-of-tune viola. 

Scowling, he left the room to wait in the hallway. It was a perfect time to torment the girl – when she was tired and wouldn't be thinking clearly enough to figure out his tricks. Not that anyone ever had in fifteen years. The Fool was dangerously close, though. 

She left, dressed in the required black clothing. He followed her through the back corridors, making sure she could feel his presence. She shuddered slightly and held her arms closer to her torso. He noted with annoyance when she began humming his music again. That was _his_ music and it was _not_ meant to be **hummed**! 

He sped to fall into line with her shadow and flicked his cloak impatiently. Her breath caught, the infernal humming ceasing as she whipped her head around to find the movement. He was careful to imitate her next gestures and she laughed with a relieved, embarrassed expression. 

His stomach twisted strangely, but he ignored this in favour of purposely stepping on a creaky floorboard. Her breath caught again, and she covered her mouth as she started humming once more. 

This would not do! She would not abuse his music like this! He threw his voice, echoing down the hallway as he whispered her name. She did not cease – she hummed louder, the damned vixen! He repeated her name, not throwing it so far away. She hummed, louder still, straying dangerously close to being off-key. Insulted, he was about to scare her further when he heard her name spoken. 

She screamed when the new arrival touched her. 

The ghost scowled furiously – that _Fool_ had gotten her to scream when he couldn't?! Things would not continue like this! 

He found himself smiling slightly as the Fool led the girl to the portrait. Tormenting Catherine had been fun. 

His scowl returned and he spun his cloak as he swept silently back down the hallway. He had more important things to deal with than scaring Miss Catherine de Night silly – his smile returned faintly – no matter how fun it was. 

... 

The cast was due to assemble at noon in his auditorium. He frowned, standing within the deep shadows of the stage as he watched the girl in the bio box. She was staring, concentrating very seriously, on the computer screen in front of her. What could she be doing that took up that much time? He knew for a fact that Technicians had barely anything to do before their respective designers had come up with a proper plan. 

He had just decided to go and find out exactly what it was, when his keen hearing picked up the sound of Mister Giles's voice coming from the Fool's headset. He frowned – how close was that boy? He tuned in to the brief conversation, with a frown: did Catherine _really_ sound like that? 

He tried to think: did she always speak with that subtlety of music in her voice? He startled when the lights faded up, jumping back into the shadows instinctively. The girl watched where he'd been standing, and his frown deepened. He was getting careless. 

... 

He was pleased to discover his grand introduction had caused such uproar. However, the lead female's screeching had been no treat to his ears – she was furious, convinced that one of the 'useless tech crew' was playing a trick on them. He'd dropped a sandbag on the desk in front of her to frighten her into silence. 

When he had looked up into the bio-box to see the girl's reaction, he saw that no one was there. He scowled – she'd returned from lunch in a sour mood, her stomach gurgling like some angry beast, and now she didn't have the decency to hang around for his announcement. He scowled, turning back into the depths of his theatre. 

Well, she would notice him, even if he had to drop a light on her head! His stomach twisted uncomfortably at that thought, but he ignored it. He jerked his cloak aside in anger and stormed to the Carlotta Suite. 

He slid the curtain aside, shutting the mirror just in time for the girl to enter the room with a furious expression on her face. She headed straight to the 'bedroom' and rummaged around in the second suitcase until she found something to wear. He averted his attention, for her modesty, and waited until the rustling of fabric had stopped before turning back to the room. 

She was seated at the vanity desk. Rather than taking out cosmetics she took out a familiar-looking envelope. It was one of his own, and he frowned. Where had she gotten one of his notes? 

She broke the seal, and pulled out the letter. "To my latest employee in the position of Lighting Technician." She muttered under her breath. Of course – the letter he had left in the care of Mister Giles. He caught her frown in the vanity mirror, and wondered – it didn't look angry, it looked rather... contemplative? What on earth could be confusing about that letter? It was straight-forward! 

She smirked slightly, before putting the letter away and turning to survey the rest of the room. She tapped her fingers on the desk, and started that blasted humming again. At least it wasn't his music this time. She seemed to be humming Beethoven, the first movement if his second piano sonata, if he wasn't mistaken. The notes were a little off, but it was a...bearable rendition. 

She looked at her mobile phone and sighed. Soon after she stood and left. The girl was planning to explore his Opera House alone at night time? He smirked as he slid the mirror aside and stepped into the room. Well, she was just asking for trouble, wasn't she? 

  


* * *

**Chapter 5: Heard As The Outcast Hears**

* * *

The girl was terrified, and he hadn't even started his torment. The lights were dimmer in this part of theatre, and the shadows deeper. It made hiding excellent for him, but every movement of shade frightened the girl. Resisting the urge to chuckle, he moved out of sync with her movements, and her eyes shot to the surrounding shadows, wild and panicky. 

He walked heavily, out of time to her footsteps. She hugged her arms around her torso and kept glancing over her shoulders for the source of noise. He roused a rat from its hiding place, and it raced across her path, coming inches from her bare feet. The girl squeaked and turned around, obviously intent on returning her room. He watched confusion dawn on her face, and she glanced up and down the hallway. 

To an untrained eye, every part of the theatre was identical, and the girl was clearly confused as to what direction she needed to head. To frighten her, and lead her deeper into his maze of corridors, he stepped on a floorboard. She screamed and ran deeper into the darkness. 

He frowned... well, that was a bit of an over-reaction. He sped after her silently, on the edge of the shadows so she would be able to see his silhouette moving. He caught up with her, falling into her peripheral vision. Her breath caught, and she stared at his place for a moment, before practically running to a wall-mounted torch bay. She turned the torch on, and he easily dodged the beam as she shot in where he had been. 

He turned off the main lights and stepped on a floorboard to mask the sound. He sidestepped the beam once again and smiled at her small whimper of fear. He walked around her, letting the fabric of his clothes rustle against each other noisily. She whirled around to face that direction, and he slid silently behind her. Her breath was hysterical, and she looked wildly around the upper walls, noticing for the first time that the lights were out. 

He reached forward and turned the torch off. She dropped it with a tiny scream, and backed up a few steps, coming into contact with his chest. She whimpered, and stumbled forwards, trying to tell herself that she'd walked into a wall. He smiled, and leant forward to whisper in her ear: "Catherine." 

She screamed loudly, and turned on him once again. He heard a loud crack in the air, and suddenly the girl was on the floor. She whimpered in pain this time, and backed into the real wall and huddled herself there, rocking back and forth and...sobbing? 

His heart twisted painfully in his chest and he fell silently to his knees beside her. She was crying. He had brought her to tears. In all his years, he had made many women cry, but never before on purpose...and it felt like his heart was breaking in his chest. 

She let her tears flow, unchecked. His own eyes watered, but he ignored that in favour of brushing away her tears with the lightest swipes of his fingertips he could manage. She calmed, closing her eyes and humming his lullaby. 

He froze, shock gripping his chest in a tight fist. _His_ lullaby. She'd listened to his music! She'd _heard_ his music! He sighed, a single tear slipping out of his left eye. "You heard." He whispered, awed. Someone had heard his music and... 

And he'd made her cry. He stood up and stepped away. Someone had finally _heard_ and he'd hurt them, hurt her. He looked at poor Catherine, huddled against the wall still humming the lullaby he'd played to calm her. Tensing his shoulders, he pointed the torch up at the map of the theatre and turned it on before fleeing back to his lair. 

Once he was back in the comfort of the only place he could call home, he fell against a stone wall and sobbed – she'd heard. She'd heard! 

In all the years of his life (he didn't know if he could count them), he'd been rejected, forced into solitude. Trapped and alone, he'd heard music no one else could hear, and when he'd found his escape, he'd locked himself away in a hallowed place of music – the _Opéra Populaire_. But it hadn't lasted. 

Before he knew it, work had begun on the 'Populaire Theatre', and his new home, his place of hallowed music, was replaced by a mockery of theatre and showtunes. He'd tried. He'd tried _for years_ to get them to listen – they would heed his threats, but they wouldn't hear his creativity. They would never listen to his music. 

Fifteen years of the Populaire Theatre, and someone had finally listened. A girl...a woman, really. Catherine de Night. She could hardly be older than nineteen, but she was no child. A woman, trapped in a position where she would always find scorn. No matter her training or talent. 

She had been dismissed, rejected...she was an outcast. She was an outcast... 

...and she had heard his music. 

His song, the one that had first made Catherine weep, echoed through his head, lyrics now joining the previously instrumental music. He pushed aside the score for the atrocious musical, throwing aside various sheets of music until he reached a layer of empty sheets. He had to write this down, record the magic before it abandoned him once more. 

He scrabbled for his ink pen and listened carefully to the music in his head, picking the starting note and inking it on the paper. It had to be perfect. It just _had_ to be. 

He had someone to listen to it, now. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 6: Notes and Fury**

* * *

"Okay, Catherine, you've been humming that annoying ditty for a month now – what on earth is it?" Greg demanded. 

Catherine arched her eyebrow furiously, instantly defensive as she had learnt to be whenever that song was mentioned. Tomorrow, she would have been at the Populaire for a whole month, and in that time, Greg's annoyance factor had doubled. "Annoying ditty?" she demanded furiously. "It's called _music_ Greg, and if you can't recognise it when you hear it, what the hell are you doing working as a Sound Assistant at the Populaire?" 

She could've sworn she heard something in the shadows chuckle, but she ignored it. A month at the Populaire and, so long as she had someone to accompany her through the backstage maze at night time, she could live without constantly being in fear. 

So far, she had avoided any direct confrontation from the Opera Ghost. There had been _plenty_ of commentary on the rehearsals of the latest production (was it terrible that she _still_ hadn't learnt its name?), mostly towards Charlotte Giordani, the lead female. It was painfully obvious that the Ghost disliked the blonde. Catherine guessed if Miss Giordani didn't start following his commands (they had long since passed advice) it would turn violent. 

Greg pouted at her – yes, actually pouted. "I've never heard it before, Cath, I was just curious." He told her. 

"Don't call me Cath." She snapped, annoyed. He'd developed the habit of calling her that, despite her seven reminders a day not to. 

"Who's it by?" he asked, ignoring her comment. 

She scowled and folded her arms as he slid the portrait of the Prima Donna aside. "If you _must_ know, it's the music I hear at two-thirty every morning." She replied pointedly. 

Greg stumbled to a halt. "The Opera Ghost?" he asked. 

She frowned, not bothering to wait for him. "That's what _you_ call him." She replied petulantly. 

Greg hurried to catch up with her, "Cath! It's dangerous to listen to the Opera Ghost's music!" he whispered furiously, glancing around him nervously. 

" _Stop_ calling me Cath! It's Cath _erine_!" she yelled tersely. "And why on earth would listening to music be dangerous?" 

"Catherine," he said carefully, still hushed, "It's a ghost! A vicious, _violent_ ghost!" She looked at him, unimpressed. "How do you know he's not controlling you?" 

" _That_ is ridiculous." She dismissed. 

"Really? So, the music doesn't make you feel stuff? Doesn't make you want to do things?" he challenged. Catherine paused, for just a moment. Greg jumped on her hesitation and blew it out of proportion. "It does! See? It's _danger_ —" 

"Greg!" she interrupted harshly. "It's an _important feature_ of good music to give you an emotional reaction! And he plays _lullabies._ They're supposed to make you want to go to sleep." She rationalized calmly. 

"Cath...I'm scared for you. He's had you wrapped around his finger since you first found out about him!" he remarked. 

"For the last time, Greg Mabry: Do. Not. Call. Me. Cath." She warned. "Not that anything is your business, but I'm perfectly safe. I've never seen him, I've never spoken to him. I've only ever heard him—at night when he plays music, and when he's threatening the cast." She paused. "Which reminds me, Mark finished his latest lighting design last night. Assuming it's _finally_ been approved by... _Him_ , I might actually have work to do today." 

" _Unlikely_." A familiar voice voice whispered in her ear. 

She grinned. "Or not." She added easily. 

Greg frowned at her. "Catherine, the Opera Ghost has delayed the lighting plans for three whole months before. Jack had to set all the lights in three weeks." He warned. 

She gave him an unimpressed look. "What happened to staying on your toes, being prepared for anything, Greg?" she mocked. "Isn't that your Populaire Etiquette?" He frowned at her, lost for words. "I've done a show with eight hours to get a clue with the lights. I did all the levels live." She told him matter-of-factly. 

He looked impressed. "Really?" 

" _That's_ keeping on your toes." She told him curtly. She pushed open the end of the secret passageway and jogged up the last flight of stairs. She turned her headset on immediately, and leant back in the comfortable chair that had 'mysteriously' turned up in the bio box one afternoon. 

She glared at the computer screen as it booted up. "Don't you have work to do?" she asked pointedly. 

"Uh..." he scanned his mind. 

"Yes, you do. The left backstage speaker is crackling." She reminded him tersely. "You're supposed to look at the wiring." 

"Oh, yeah. I'll pop in on you later." He told her. 

"You always do." She answered, resigned. She pointedly ignored him as he left the bio box, opening up a game of solitaire for show. Rather than play it, she glanced over her shoulders, and pulled a letter from her back pocket. A letter from her mother, the first since she'd last been home. She briefly scanned it but it was almost word-for-word like her last three letters. Okay, the endearments were less affectionate and some of the adjectives were different, but it was essentially the same. There was more attention to personalization in the Phantom's letters to Miss Giordani than there were in the letters from home. And wasn't that depressing? 

"Ray, check." He said tiredly. 

"Greg, check." The boy confirmed. 

"Catherine, check mate." She said with a smirk. 

"You're hilarious, Cath. Completely hilarious." Greg replied sourly. 

"Greg." She warned. 

"In your own time, please, ladies." Ray interrupted, irked. "Catherine, lights up please." He requested. She complied, still somewhat awed by the revealing of the magnificent auditorium. "Catherine, Mark finished his latest draft yesterday afternoon. They've been out all night, but he's leaving it for a few more hours before he'll call you down to take over." 

"Yep." She acknowledged. "Just like the last six times." 

"A little faith, Miss de Night, please?" Ray asked tiredly. 

She didn't answer, and no one else said anything else. She closed the game of Solitaire and paced the box for some time. She really needed something to do. With a sigh, she turned the stage mike on, instantly regretting it. 

Miss Giordani had centre stage as she screeched out her part of the love duet: " _I'm lovely..._ " she howled, " _All I am is lovely_..." Catherine winced – Miss Giordani was anything but lovely when she sang like this. As an audience member, she could be injured by the assault on her ear drums, but remark on the clever irony of a horrible singer being the most desirable woman on the stage. As part of the crew, she, too, could be sick of Miss Giordani disobeying _everyone's_ advice and instructions, and singing it awfully. 

" _Lovely is the one thing I can do. Winsome, sweet and warm and winsome, radiant as in some dream come **true**_!" Catherine literally flinched as Miss Giordani screeched the high note. 

Surely the Phantom wouldn't wait too long to... 

The intense organ music exploded to life, and a bar of lights behind where Mr Peterson (the romantic lead) was standing fell and crashed to the stage. Miss Giordani's terrible screeching turned into terrified screaming and Catherine winced. The Opera Ghost's voice boomed from everywhere: 

"I have warned you Miss Giordani!" he growled furiously. "Before you insult my Opera House by darkening this stage again, you will learn how to sing, or you will not sing at all!" 

Miss Giordani's screaming became strangled, strained, and finally broke. She continued screaming and sobbing, now hoarse and (thankfully) nearly inaudible. 

This shocked Catherine into movement. Swearing at the top of her lungs, she raced down the eight flights of stairs and as quickly as she could to the stage. Miss Giordani was having a hissy fit as best she could without a voice. Catherine by-passed her and the rest of the terrified cast to go up on the stage, where Mister Peterson was standing, shocked into stillness. She shook his shoulder. "Mister Peterson! You need to get off the stage." She said desperately. 

He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time, then backed away terrified from the fallen light bar, staring frightfully up at the remaining lights. He retreated into a huddle with the rest of the cast, and Catherine headed warily over to the fallen bar. She assessed it carefully, scowling as she stormed over to one end. 

"Ray, Greg, wherever the hell you are, you need to be on the stage right now!" she yelled into the radio mike. 

She crouched down at the end, and picked up a rope with a furious expression. Greg was first to arrive, running at breakneck speed. He gaped at the wreckage on the stage and breathed: "The Opera Ghost..." 

"Well, who else?" she demanded furiously. "Help me unplug all these lights – if the wiring hasn't already snapped, we'll want them all unplugged before we try anything." She commanded. He ran to the other end while she started unplugging the lights closest to her. She was thankful when the organ music started fading out. 

Ray came in next, looking apprehensive. "The Ghost?" he asked, resigned. 

She scowled at him, and didn't bother to answer. She left the rest of the lights to Greg and led Ray to the end of the bar. She picked up the rope and showed it to him. "He unhooked the safety chains and sliced through the ropes." She explained coldly. 

He stared with his eyes wide. "Can we fix this?" he asked. 

"We have to. You can't do a show with a whole light bar missing." She said darkly. "I'll need my Lighting Assistant, the Theatre Electrician and a couple of Stage Hands if we can get them." She explained, business-like in her manner. "We'll probably need to re-wire the bar, and we'll need to completely replace the rope." She added. 

"We can get everyone in first thing tomorrow morning." Ray informed her. "The theatre has stockpiled wiring and ropes." 

"Excellent. Where's Paul?" she asked, naming her Lighting Assistant. 

Ray shrugged. "He lives outside the theatre." 

"Call him in, get him to cut the ropes to whatever length is necessary. At least we can have them done for tomo—" she was cut off by someone grabbing her shoulder and turning her around sharply. 

Miss Giordani was standing a foot away from her with an ugly mask of hatred on her face. "You did this!" she yelled, her voice barely a whisper. 

"Miss Giordani, I would appreciate it if you did not making incriminating accusations." Catherine told her, trying to keep her tone business-like. "I did not cause this situation, but I am aiming to have it rectified as soon as possible. Please let me get on with my—" 

She was cut by a slap to the face. "I know you have something to do with this!" she hissed furiously. "I could have you fired!" 

Catherine seethed, trying to control her temper. "Miss Giordani." She said, her voice deadly calm. "You are shocked, and probably quite scared. You are over-reacting." She straightened her t-shirt. "I advise you to rest your voice, so you don't incur any further damage. Try honey and lemon in hot water." She advised, before turning her attention back to Ray. "Can we get these lights cleared?" she asked. 

He looked at her strangely, but with respect shining in his eyes. "We can get to work right away." He agreed. 

... 

Miraculously, they had cleared the lights away in time for lunch. Catherine kept her expression and body language neutral. She walked at a carefully measured pace out of the building. She managed to bury her fury but it was going to be sucker-punch in the face to anyone who got in the way when she finally let it out. 

As Ray had explained: if Miss Giordani decided to make a formal complaint, Catherine was liable to lose her job. The theatre was, unfortunately, a business that had to comply with normal legal standards. Nobody wanted to get the messy business of the Opera Ghost into a court room. Or even out of the confines of the theatre at all. There had been too many 'accidents'. 

As it was, her fate currently rested in the hands of one overbearing prima donna who seemed to be quickly developing a personal vendetta. Needless to say, Catherine didn't like her chances. 

Ray had made it perfectly clear. She would lose her job and, subsequently, her technician's license if Miss Giordani complained to Mister Finn. 

No one stopped her as she re-entered the Populaire, and nobody said anything when she'd put on her radio mike and announced that she was back on line. She sniffed the air curiously, and turned to see a covered cafeteria tray sitting on the back bench. Confused, she lifted the cover – only to first see a bright red skull leering at her. 

She picked up one of the infamous 'O.G.' notes and opened it. 

' _Dear Miss de Night,_

_Your digestive system is an unwanted disruption to the running of my Opera House. Your lunch hour is to be used for sustenance, not socialising._

_Your obedient friend and servant,_

_O.G._ ' 

She scowled, but worked to bury the fury from receiving the missive. She composedly sat and ate the supplied meal, hardly taking enough notice to know what she was eating. Once finished, she folded up the cover and left it on the bench beside the empty tray. 

She pulled a scrap piece of paper from beside the computer and wrote a note in reply. She folded it and placed it on top of the cover, before sitting back in front of the computer and staring blankly at the unplayed game of Solitaire. 

"Catherine, do you read?" Ray's voice asked, sombre. 

"I read." She answered stiffly. 

"Please come to Mark's office." He requested, followed by the click of a radio mike being turned off. 

Catherine sighed in relief as she left the box. The theatre passed in a blur, but she did not stop until she was in Mark West's office. 

Or what was left of it. 

The walls looked as if they had been attacked with a sledgehammer, the desk overturned and the computer pulled apart. What seemed to be thousands of ripped pieces of paper flew around the room in the breeze of the fan. Amidst the carnage stood a despairing Mark and a weary Ray. She pulled her radio mike off her head and stared around. "The Opera Ghost?" she asked, already knowing the answer. 

"It seems I botched up my last chance." Mark answered, handing her a red-skulled note. She frowned slightly as she read it. 

' _Mister West._

_You have continued to disappoint me in your work. I advise you to find some fresh perspective – ask your Lighting Technician for ideas on how to improve. Do not try me further._

_Your obedient friend and servant,_

_O.G.'_

She handed it back. "Do you have a surviving lighting plan?" she asked, business-like manner returned. He nodded, and handed her a crumpled piece of paper. "What does the Ghost object to?" she questioned. 

"The lighting for the 'House of Erronius', stage left." He explained. "He tells me a flood would not draw sufficient enough attention to it, the Fresnel is too subtle but a spotlight too much. I'm at my wit's end, Catherine, this has gone too far." 

Catherine ignored him. _He_ thought the ghost had gone too far? She peered and the stage design. "Well, I think the solution is rather obvious." She answered matter-of-factly. "You'll need a P.C. – or maybe a Par Can." 

Mark West stared at her like she'd just spoke in gibberish. "What?" 

She frowned at him severely. "A P.C. or a Par Can." She repeated. "Look into it." She dismissed him. "Does the Ghost have any further objections?" she asked. 

"No, but—" 

"Good. May I be excused?" she asked Ray. 

He nodded. "We will have to talk later, though Catherine. I spoke with Dennis during Lunch." He said pointedly. 

She nodded. "If you need me before then, I will be in the bio box." 

... 

Fury bubbling in her gut, Catherine glared out at the auditorium as she stood on the darkened stage with an electric lantern. 

"Hey!" she yelled furiously into the dark air. "Mister O.G., I demand that we speak. Now!" There was a slight pause. "You owe me that courtesy!" she yelled. 

"I am listening, Miss de Night." The intimidating voice of the Ghost answered. 

Beneath her fury, Catherine recognised that this was also the voice that had been singing to her – the Opera Ghost and the Phantom of the Opera were, as she had known, the same person. But she found it hard to correlate – the man who created such beauty was the same spectre who had messed up her life within the span of one day? It didn't seem right. 

"I would like to express my outrage at your blatant disregard of other people's safety and comment that all of your actions today were counter-productive to the production and the Populaire itself." She explained formally. 

"Miss de Night, I **am** the Populaire." He returned dryly. 

"That, I hardly believe." She answered curtly. "I would also like to sarcastically thank you for ruining my career, but I think now it's rather pointless." She commented. "So I will bid you farewell. I will leave as early as convenient tomorrow morning." 

On that note, she turned on her heel and left the stage. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 7: Conversations In the Shadows**

* * *

Her handwriting was exquisite. It danced neatly across the page, with the occasional curl and loop for flair. If he could ignore the words, it was a delightful gift. Much of their...interactions over the past month had been a gift he cherished just as equally. His use of the word interactions was tentative – for they could hardly be called that. 

For the most part, he played his music for her, but most importantly: she listened to it. She was quicker than the others – she had already figured out that there was something behind the mirror, though he hadn't quite figured it out exactly what she believed. Regardless of the details, she had learnt to accept unexplained movements of the curtain. 

With a sigh, he unfolded the second letter he had gained from her. It was rather long, but he still could not get passed the first line. She had left in behind in the bio box when she had left for 'lunch'. He laid it out against her letter to him. 

He couldn't understand. The handwriting was obviously different – while they shared the same loops and swirls, the longer letter's script spoke of strict guidelines and cold indifference. It was written by someone else, but why would the girl have a letter composed to someone else? Perhaps the contents of the letter would clarify something. 

' _Dear Christine_ ,' it began. 

' _The orchard is missing your bright presence for another Monthly Roast. Really, Christine, I understand that you are busy working on your career, but I must repeat myself once again: you needn't work – Richard is more than financially capable of supporting you._

_While we are well aware of how passionate you are about your interest in the theatre, it's an inappropriate place for a young lady such as yourself. Understand, there is much respect in those who are seen on the stage, but when you are behind the scenes your work goes unrecognized._

_Some time ago, you weren't so timid as to having to hide in the background! I'm sure with some arrangements, Richard could get you a place in the Ledger Vocal and Dramatic Performance Course. Don't hesitate to tell us if you change your mind and wish to renew your interest in the better aspects of the theatre._

_Richard is friends with the Dean after all! And the Ledger Theatre could use some funding for renovations._

_Technical work is fine enough for those who have no other opportunity, or perhaps even for just a Daae, but not for the stepdaughter of a Count!_

_Better yet, my dear, you should come home. I worry about you out on your own, especially at such a young age! Why not come home for a couple of years? Richard can help you with your career when you're older and more prepared for the world._

_My darling, your letters tell me nothing! Is there a young suitor you should be introducing me to? I'm your mother, Christine, you shouldn't keep such things from me. It is important, dear, that you find a man of appropriate standing to support you in an appropriate lifestyle. What of Raoul? You got along so well as children. Have you sent him your contact details yet?_

_Which reminds me, dear – why are you going by this ridiculous false name? I could understand perfectly if it was a stage name, but to hide your identity when you could use a boost in your career? To me it is simply nonsense._

_Oh! Richard took me to the most delightful restaurant the other day—_ ' The ghost groaned, briefly scanning the letter to see when the author ended her rather boring report on her day at the French Seaside. There was only one more sentence not self centred: 

' _Come home, dear. We miss you._

_Lots of Love,_

_Miranda Daae-Hetherington._ ' 

So...'Catherine' was working under a false name? "Christine Daae..." he whispered, letting the name roll of his tongue. It felt better to say than Catherine, a more worthy name for the beautiful, distinguished young woman that she was. He was upset for her though, with the blatant disapproval from her mother on her choice of career. But she didn't disapprove of the theatre, just her daughter's work on the apparently wrong side of the stage. 

He scowled – who was this Raoul? One of Catherine's apparent (he growled) suitors? It would not do! She was the first person to ever hear his music! He couldn't have her taken away by some...unworthy, damnable... _fop_! 

"Damn it, Greg, for the last time – **leave me alone**!" the girl's voice pierced the silence of his domain. He flinched, the screeching quality of her voice making him worry for her current emotional state. Christine, or rather Catherine, had never been this harsh before. She was generally sweet-demeanoured, if a little casual with her expletives. It must have taken a lot to get her upset enough to be hysterically screaming. The Fool said something calmly and gently, but that only seemed to anger her more. "There won't _be_ a tomorrow, Greg!" she screeched. 

He frowned slightly, folding the letters back to their original creases. What had gotten the girl so upset? And what did she mean there wasn't going to be a tomorrow? A tomorrow for what, exactly? 

He rushed to the Carlotta Suite, depositing her mother's letter onto her vanity table and slipping behind the mirror just in time to hear fast-faced, stomping footsteps outside the door. Christine threw the door open and slammed it shut behind her, flicking the lock with more force than necessary. She paced back forth through the room for some time, before spotting the revealed mirror. 

With the deepest scowl he had ever seen on her lovely face, she stormed over and yanked the curtain closed roughly. 

After some time, a muffled buzzing informed him that her mobile telephone was ringing, and she answered it with a very calm. "Catherine speaking." 

' _Christine..._ ' his mind whispered. 

"I understand." She said calmly. "No, that's reasonable." She agreed."Oh, no doubt of it... of course ...well... no, that's okay ...and he said? ...yes." she sighed deeply. "Thank you, Mister Giles. Send word if there's a change." She requested, before she ended the call with a click. 

There was a tense silence that seemed to stretch on for an eternity, before Catherine gave a furious growl and there was a loud bang on the wall beside the mirror. The ghost glanced at it curiously, wondering what it could have been. 

Furious footsteps retreated out of the room, and he waited to hear the lock clicking before he slipped into the room. To his left, there was Catherine's mobile telephone skew-if on the floor. Well, it let him know what she'd thrown. 

"Catherine...Catherine, what are you...?" The ghost scowled as he heard The Fool's infuriating voice. He stepped closer to the door. "Catherine! Where are you going?" 

Catherine's voice echoed back down the hallway. "To talk to a ghost!" The ghost himself arched an eyebrow – now why would she want to do that? 

"Catherine! That's crazy!" The Fool yelled after her, before he sighed and headed the opposite direction. 

The ghost slipped out of the Carlotta Suite and locked it behind him, hurrying down the hallway after the furious girl. She was still dressed in her work-blacks, one of the theatre's portable lanterns clutched in hand as she headed down the hallway with the same determination in her step he had seen on her first day at his Opera House. 

He was rather confused as to where she was going, until she started up the spiral staircase to the stage wings. Of course – where else to talk to a ghost than the crucible of his Opera House? He followed her, hoisting himself up quickly and quietly to the catwalks, watching her warily as she called for him (rather ineloquently, he noticed) from exact centre-stage. 

He was affronted when she demanded they speak – what power did she have to command him, or demand anything from him? 

"You owe me that courtesy!" she interrupted his musings, her voice echoing back from the back of the theatre. He frowned...such projection... 

"I am listening, Miss de Night." He told her, throwing his voice from the chandelier. Why exactly did he owe her the courtesy of conversation? She was confounding...but mesmerizing. Never before had someone looked so natural on his stage, no other person had filled the theatre with their voice so completely...barring himself, of course. 

His thoughts were delayed as she began to scold him. She was _scolding_ him!? "I would like to express my outrage at your blatant disregard of other people's safety—" He almost scoffed there. Not that any of the amateurs who trespassed on his stage were his concern, they had not been any danger. He had already disconnected the wiring before he had dropped the bar, and that there was at least a metre of safety between the closest actor and when the bar had fallen. "—and comment that all of your actions today were counter-productive to the production and the Populaire itself." With a scowl, he got to his feet in annoyance. How dare she assume that anything that had happened today would ruin his Opera House! This work was not worthy of it! 

"Miss de Night," he told her, keeping his tone dry, "I _am_ the Populaire." The Populaire was his, and he was as much a part of it as the stage or the foyer. In fact, more so! 

"That, I hardly believe." That petulant little girl! How dare she?! "I would also like to sarcastically thank you for ruining my career, but I think now it's rather pointless." That stopped his anger in his tracks. What exactly did she mean by that comment? How had he ruined her career? He was about to ask, but she had already progressed. "So I will bid you farewell. I will leave as early as convenient tomorrow morning." 

The ghost froze mid-step. She was _leaving_? A small cry of despair tore from his lips. She couldn't _leave_! He would not allow it! She was the only person who had ever _listened_ – she would not take that away from him! She would not take _herself_ from him. 

He threw his cloak aside furiously as he left the catwalk and began his journey to his underground lair. If she was leaving tomorrow morning, but he had no choice but to deal with her tonight. 

He had planned this for another, later, time but the recent events called for his plan to be executed now. He would bring her to him, make it known that she had to stay. And if she decided that she still wanted to leave... 

  


* * *

**Chapter 8: The Decision**

* * *

He'd spent the evening getting everything into place. The labyrinth of tunnels under the Opera House were filled with a great number of rooms and cupboards, most of them filled with old set pieces or broken furniture. The couch itself had been broken, but he replaced the wooden support underneath the seats and re-sown the upholstery – the thread scars he covered with a fur throw from his bed. 

He'd rigged up some lighting to an old slider, and played with the placements and levels enough so that he could create sufficient lighting at the couch, but enough shade for him to be silhouetted at the piano he had manoeuvred into the corner. 

Now, there was only to wait for the girl to make her choice. 

... 

Catherine's body clock woke her at 2:27, even when the ghost's music did not. She stayed in bed, a frown on her face. So...what? She had yelled at him and now he refused to play his music for her? Well, fine then! It's not like she cared at all. 

Realising how petty she was being, she worked on burying her anger along with the remnants of yesterday's fury. Once that was done, she rolled onto her back. Her frown increased slightly. The picture behind her eyes was stained with red. She threw her eyes open and looked across to the mirror. Or, where the mirror had once been. 

Behind the frame, there was now a stone corridor, dimly illuminated by a flaming torch set into a wall bracket. She slid out of bed, crossing the room. She stood before the gilded frame, and noticed with a start that the glass wasn't lined up properly. She slid her fingers into the crevice between the right edge of the frame and the glass panel. With a firm push, the glass slid aside and she gaped – the mirror was a secret passageway? 

It...made sense. She stuck her head through the gap and looked at...her own reflection. 

She gave a single bark of a laugh. Of course. Half-silvered mirrors. Why was she even surprised? 

She pulled back out of the mirror and stood watching it for a moment. Well, it was obvious she was _supposed_ to go down the passageway – why else would the Phantom have left it open and visible to her? She frowned and crossed her arms under her chest – but would she obey his unspoken command? That was the real question. She balanced both sides of the arguments. 

On one hand, wandering into what appeared to be yet another maze of the _Opéra Populaire_ was a bad idea. She got lost easy enough as it was, but going into a place she had never even _seen_ before was just asking for utter confusion and possibly dying in a confusing labyrinth. As well as that, she had very likely pissed off the Opera Ghost earlier this evening, and seeing as the ghost and the Phantom were technically the same person, it could be a trap. It was _mostly likely_ a trap. 

But – and was the 'but' that would always be her undoing – it was the time of night when she usually heard the Phantom's music. What if she wasn't dealing with the Opera Ghost? What if the Phantom had been planning this for a long time, and since tonight was his last opportunity, he was taking it? She bit her lip. If it was the Phantom, he wouldn't let her get lost...would he? 

She pushed the mirror fully aside and looked down the hallway. She couldn't see to the end, a single torch being the only source of light. Surely the Phantom would lead her...? 

She hesitated a moment, before setting her face in determination and sliding the mirror closed. She wouldn't fall for it. It was most definitely a trap! 

She climbed back into bed and closed her eyes resolutely. Nope, she wouldn't be tricked. 

Her traitorous body refused to go back to sleep without its usual permission – that damned lullaby! Greg had been right when he'd warned her against listening. Now she'd never be able to get sleep without hearing it. It must've been the Phantom's plan the whole time. Making her dependant on his music – it was blatant...coercion, and she wouldn't succumb to it! 

She stared at the reddened back of her eyelids. He was playing mind games with her. Practically trying to make her go insane! Trying to make her choose to drive _herself_ insane by losing herself in a maze of tunnels beneath the ground. She wouldn't! 

With a frustrated groan, she threw off the blankets and stood glaring at the tunnel beyond the glass. Fine, she was curious! What was down there? She pulled her sheer dressing gown from her half-packed suitcase and secured it around her. 

With a grim frown and simmering anger, she opened the mirror back up and headed through the tunnel, hoping she wasn't making a really big mistake. The mirror slid shut behind her and locked with a click. She shivered in fear. "Guess there's no going back then?" she asked. Her voice echoed back to her until it was a jumble of nonsensical syllables, and she shivered again, pulling her sleeves closer. 

Ghost or Phantom, things were already in motion. She had no choice but to go deeper. 

... 

Beneath the fifth cellar in a shadowy lair, a ghost smiled at a screen as he watched the girl go down the corridor. He turned the screen off and turned towards the exit with a swirl of his cloak. It was time. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 9: No One Would Listen**

* * *

As Catherine came to the end of the patch of light, another torch sparked to life. She saw the end of the hallway but frowned – it split at the wall, giving her a choice of either right or left. This was the test: if the Phantom somehow led her in either direction, she was safe; if the Ghost let her choose, she was doomed. She approached, slowly, hoping she hadn't made the wrong choice in letting her curiosity overcome her common sense. 

She reached the end and took a deep breath. To her right, a torch alit and she sighed in relief. Everything was okay. 

She walked down the sloping path, the flaming torches continuing to show her which direction she should be going. She went down a number of staircases, through countless twists and turns. She began to worry – what if it really was the Ghost she was dealing with? 

Her fears were somewhat calmed when she was finally led to a pair of gilded, ebony doors. One opened without apparent cause, swinging open silently. She stepped through and stared into the darkness as the door closed with a quiet click. 

The lights in the room slowly faded up, and she gaped. Against the far wall, there was a plush couch, upholstered in purple velvet, a black fur throw tossed over one arm. She crossed over to it, looking closer. It was actually a really dark red, not purple. She ran a hand over the material, gooseflesh rising on her arm at the sensation. 

She jumped in the air, spinning around to face the shadows of the room when a voice whispered: "Christine..." 

She was dressed in a soft peach, ankle-length nightgown, cut modestly with a heart-shaped neckline. It harmonized nicely with the paleness of her skin, the sheer black nightgown balancing the blend out with a sharp contrast. Her long, brown hair was sleep-mussed, her tired eyes a rich warm brown. 

She was beautiful. 

He couldn't help her name, her real name, slip past his lips. She turned to face him, and he was assured that he was well-hidden within the shadows. She frowned, peering into the darkness behind the piano, until she could make out his silhouette. Eventually, she sighed and sat down on the couch. "You read my mother's letter?" she asked softly. He nodded, keeping his expression neutral, even though it was unnecessary. "Did you return it?" she continued. He nodded again. She turned onto the couch, leaning back against the arm-rest and looking at him with a blank expression. "So...a piano?" she prompted. 

He frowned slightly, and sat smoothly in the seat, placing his hands on the keys. It was perfectly tuned, he had checked numerous times during the course of the evening. He had planned on starting out with his own music, but he could tell she was still angry from earlier that day. There was only one thing to do. 

He started playing. 

She frowned as he started playing. Her scowl deepened and her stomach started churning with fury. She got to her feet, her fists clenching. "What are you doing?" she demanded. 

"The Ballad of Sweeney Todd." The Phantom said calmly. "It stirs your fury, allows you feel the anger you're trying to repress." 

As it continued, she felt her anger shooting through her veins and her shoulders tensed. But wariness and confusion drifted on the surface. "How..." her jaw clenched. "How did you know?" she demanded, her voice growling. 

She could've sworn he was smirking as he answered: "It does the same to me." He answered. 

"Oh, so I _must_ be _exactly_ like **you**!" she yelled. 

"Anger and sarcasm, an easy connection to make." The Phantom agreed. "It makes you angry, but that does not mean you dislike the song." He continued. 

She crossed her arms under her chest, glaring at him defiantly. "So?" she demanded petulantly. 

"It is a skill of a great musician to let you feel things, Christine." He commented. "Sondheim is a brilliant composer. While my disdain for the current production is, well, quite obvious, I have a deep appreciation of his work. There's a certain part of—" 

"God, would you _shut **up**_!" she yelled, throwing her arms back down. She gasped, and her anger seemed to drift away as the notes of the song slowed and drifted off. She felt tiredness, but her repressed anger from the day was finally gone. 

"Now you are ready." 

She was ready. He watched as she sat back on the couch, hugging her knees with her back against the arm rest. "Thank you." She whispered. 

He nodded, and started playing his first song to her. He, nervous for the first time in as long as he could remember, read over the music on the sheets before him, desperate for everything to be perfect. It had to be perfect. It just had to be. 

He looked at her, heart racing as he saw her softening expression become sad. She wrapped the fur throw around her shoulders and watched his silhouette, intent and enraptured. He took a deep breath silently, and smoothly brought the song back to its beginning. He prepared himself, and he sung: 

" _Shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude – I learned to listen. In my dark, my heart heard music."_ Embarrassed and nervous, he looked away back to the keys. Tentatively, he sung: _"I longed to teach the world, rise up and reach the world. No one would listen, I alone could hear the music."_ He turned his face to look back at her, his heart almost missing a beat. She was on her knees on the other end of the couch he had last seen her, black fur throw clutched in her hands with ice-white knuckles. His stomach twisted in guilt when he saw the tears she allowed to slide down her cheeks unhindered, but her sympathetic look made his soul sing. With it, he found the power to give his next words strength: 

" _Then at last, a voice in the gloom seemed to cry: I hear you! I hear your fears, your torment and your tears!_ " She smiled, softly, gently, and the heart leap he felt from knowing he had caused that brought him back down to this room, here with her. " _She saw my loneliness, shared in my emptiness. No one would listen, no one but her heard as the outcast hears._ " 

As he played the short musical intermission, she slid her legs back over the couch into a normal sitting position, and she leaned against the arm rest, as close as possible she could get to him without leaving the couch. 

He looked deep into her eyes, knowing she couldn't see back at his, as he reprised the central message of the song, giving it to her, showing her a fractured portion of his soul: " _No one would listen...no one but her heard as the outcast hears_..." 

The final piano chord and the last sorrowful note he sung faded out together and Catherine felt her breath disappear in their absence. The song, his voice, the emotions had been... 

"Beautiful." She whispered into the silent air. The silhouette turned further to face her, and she felt her breath come back with a rush of exhilaration (and a bit of a head-spin). "It was beautiful." 

He whispered back, his voice with the same reverence in it as when she believed the Phantom had first spoken to her: "Thank you." 

The two phrases echoed in her mind: 'You heard.' and 'Thank you.' Two pairs of words she had probably heard a thousand times in her life, but never had they meant so much. Her heart broke a fraction, and she dissolved into tears. 

A new song began then, soft and hesitant on the piano. It was unlike any other song she had heard before, except for the essence of the musician imprinting on her soul. It soothed her, calmed her hysteria. When the song had eased her away from her tears, she opened her eyes to see the silhouette bent over the piano, playing with devotion. 

When she had calmed enough to speak, she asked: "What's this?" 

"This?" he returned. His voice was carefully controlled, that same reverence glimmering beneath the surface. "This, Christine, is yours." He whispered. 

Her heart stammered to new life in her chest and she gasped a deep breath, as if breathing for the first time. This was hers! "Th...Thank you." She whispered, moved. 

The silhouette tilted his head at her, and she could somehow _sense_ the small, reluctant smile. "Do not thank me. It is not mine to give." He told her gently. " _I_ am playing this. But, no, Christine, _you_ are _making this_!" He spoke with such passion, it was impossible to deny. 

"But, you..." she tried. 

"Shh..." he interrupted, taking a hand off the piano to hold it to where she assumed his lips were. "Just listen...Christine." 

And she did. 

Snatching the music the air, he used the piano as its unworthy instrument into the world. Oh, it could be beautiful as he heard it, with a swelling orchestra to take it to its fullest heights. But he restrained it, kept it calming. He had led her on such an emotional roller coaster already, he now just wanted to settle her down, make her comfortable. 

But she listened wholly. When he looked at her next, withdrawing from the haze the music threatened to lull him in to, she was curled on the couch, with her hand gripping the fur as it was wrapped around her shoulders. He knew by her breathing that she was not asleep, but she was relaxed, and peaceful as he had only seen her in slumber. 

Slowly, gently, he eased down the slider with his foot, letting the subtle lights disappear completely. In the unexpected (and to her, complete) darkness, she opened her eyes and looked around. He continued playing, slowing it and softening the noise for a very slow fade out. 

"I'm going to miss this." Her voice announced softly in the darkness. 

His chest ached as he remembered. "You're leaving." He felt ashamed of the pain he could hear in those two spoken words. 

"I don't want to." She replied sadly. 

"Then don't." He replied rationally, while his worry slipped away – she _wanted_ to stay! 

"I must." She answered sadly. 

He took his hands off the keys, scowling. "Why?" he demanded. When she had not answered after some time, his anger sparked further. "Why _must_ you leave?" he growled. 

She leant up on her elbow, staring blindly in his direction. "Phantom, please don't be mad." She pleaded softly. 

He frowned slightly. "Phantom?" he asked, confused. 

"I didn't want to call you 'Opera Ghost' like all the others do." She remarked. His fists clenched – the others, the world above! He had forgotten anything but the two of them, and the growing music between them, linking them beyond any connection he had ever known before. He had forgotten his Opera House, almost entirely. "I do not know your name," she continued, hesitant, "but your other title, 'The Phantom of the Opera' came to me." 

His heart jumped. "Did it sing to you?" he whispered. His song, the organ music he announced himself to the Populaire with, had it sung his name to her? 

"What?" she asked, confused. But if she had heard his name in his music...that meant... "Phantom, what did you ask me?" Maybe not yet, but if... there was definitely... _potential._

"Another time, my dear." He said clearly, but hushed. "That is a concern for another time." He added, remembering where they had been before they were waylaid off track. "You were telling me, my dear, why it is you must leave?" 

Catherine sighed as the question came back. She didn't want to say it – she didn't want to face it now that she had...now that she had heard _his music_. But he was waiting, and she had to answer. 

"Miss Giordani accused me of dropping the lighting bar." She explained at a whisper. "Mister Finn and Mister Giles decided it would be easier if I took the blame. I'm losing my job and my license." 

"No." The Phantom's voice was laced with pain, which she couldn't quite understand. 

"I thought you didn't want me working here?" she asked, recalling that letter to Ray. "That I couldn't possibly handle the work expected of me? How a female technician would be hazardous to the reputation of the theatre?" 

There was a rush of air, and she felt gentle hands cup her face. "Tell me, Christine: do you honestly think I still believe that?" She closed her eyes, overcome by the sensation. His grip was gentle, but firm, and sent a spark of electricity down her spine. His enchanting voice spoken so close, so passionately, asked: "Do you not think I have the utmost respect for you?" 

She opened her eyes as she remembered. "You told Mark to get advice from me!" 

"Yes, Christine, I did. Tell me: if I let you give advice in my Opera House, would I not want you to stay?" His grip on her face tightened almost imperceptivity, and she felt body heat close to her face. When he spoke, his voice was closer. "Now that I've found you, did you truly believe I would _let you leave_?" 

The possessiveness in his voice sent a shiver of excitement through her body, that she desperately hoped he wouldn't misinterpret. She took in a deep breath, inhaling a scent of rich chocolate that could only be from _him_. "But, Ray told me to leave...they're finding another technician." 

His voice was disapproving, with an edge of steely resolve that belonged to the Opera Ghost, he said: "Those two fools do not decide what happens to _my_ Opera House." 

"They decided _I_ would work here." She pointed out, confused. 

He chuckled softly, and she felt his breath move closer, and the shock of sensation as he leant her forehead against hers. There was the warmth of flesh, but some of it felt strange, not as smooth as its other half. "No, my dear..." he corrected softly. " I _allowed_ you to _stay_." 

She sighed softly and eased herself back off her elbow onto a cushion of the fur throw. The Phantom released her to move, but once she was settled, she felt the same warm sensations of his forehead leant against her shoulder. "So...I can stay?" she asked tentatively. "You want me to stay? Even if I'm not a Lighting Technician any more?" she asked hesitantly. 

She felt that steely resolve like a change in the air. "You will keep your job, Christine." He told her firmly. "No Theatre Director nor _manager_ —" he spat the word out in distaste, "—nor even your own mother has the right to stop you from doing what you love." 

She felt nervous. "What are you going to do?" she asked warily. 

He chuckled again. "Do not fear, Christine. I will sort things out for you. You will not leave tomorrow." She felt a heavy ' _you will never leave until I let you_ ' in the air, but instead of intimidating her, it let her feel warm and protected. 

She went to answer, but a yawn replaced her words. "I'm sorry." She mumbled. 

"No apologies, my dear." He said softly, before his forehead left her shoulder and there was a rush of air. "It is I who have kept you up. Come, you have planned a busy day for yourself tomorrow." 

She frowned in light-hearted annoyance as she sat up properly, reluctantly leaving the soft fur throw behind. "Only because you dropped a _whole lighting bar_ on the stage!" she reminded him. 

She swore she felt the smile in the air between them. "Ah, yes. But it stopped the crow from 'singing', did it not?" She inclined her head and hummed a tuneless note to indicate her agreement. She felt the softest of leathers brushing against her hand, before a larger, leather-encased hand took her own. 

"How do I get back?" she asked, remembering the labyrinth she had travelled through to get to this place. He led her to where she thought the door was and started leading her out. She resisted slightly, nervous. 

"Do you trust me?" he asked softly. The simple question seemed loaded with much more than what seemed to apply to its current context. He asked again, his voice at the softest whisper: "Do you trust me, Christine?" 

"Yes." She answered, sure. 

"Then do not fear." He whispered. 

"I won't." 

  


* * *

**Chapter 10: Intervention or Inquisition?**

* * *

It was eight in the morning, and Catherine was lugging her suitcases through the back door of the Populaire. She had hoped that the Phantom would've sorted things out by now, but here she was, handing the first of her suitcases over to the sour-faced taxi driver. 

She couldn't believe it – the Phantom had told her she wouldn't have to leave! She sighed and slid into the interior of the black taxi, choosing to face the back window rather than the driver. Had last night been a dream, after all? 

After the magnificent music and the tender companionship had ended, he had led her back through the maze to her room. She had been wary at first, but he had never led her astray. It was thrilling, on the edge of terrifying almost. But he had been there, so she was safe. 

As he had guided her gently through the mirror frame, not stepping into her room, he had told her gently: "Tomorrow, you must pretend like nothing has happened. Pack your bags and make to leave the Populaire. Don't worry, Christine. I will sort everything out." 

She had believed him, and now, like a fool, she was crying in the back of a taxi. "Where to, miss?" 

"Hetherington Orchards." She answered, her throat almost closing up. She had no choice but to go back to her mother, with nowhere else left to call home. 

The taxi driver whistled. "That's a long way, miss. I'll have to check with head office to see if I can go that far out of town." He remarked, digging around his centre console for a phone. 

"That will be unnecessary. If Miss de Night is requiring transportation later in the day, we will be sure to call you back up." A voice said from outside the window. 

She turned to glare at Greg standing beyond the glass. She rolled it down and demanded: "What are you doing, Greg?" 

"There's been...a change in plans." He said conspirital, eyeing her. "Ray needs you to come to the Manager's office now." He added. 

She sighed in annoyance (but secretly in relief) and opened the car door up, getting out as gracefully as she could manage. "This better be for a good reason." She remarked. 

"That really depends on the meaning behind the reason." Greg added cryptically, as Catherine threw the driver a £50 note by way of apology. "I'll help you with your bags." He said. 

She removed her luggage and followed after him. Ray was scowling through the back door, and gestured for a number of stagehands to take her bags away. 

She arched an eyebrow. "What's going on?" she asked. 

"This is a matter we will discuss further in Mister Finn' office." Ray answered stiffly. "For now, however, you should know that you are to stay at the Populaire." 

"I'm staying?" she asked, unable to keep the relief from her voice. 

"Come on. Greg you stay out here." He commanded, before leading Catherine away to Mister Finn's office. The man in question was sitting behind the desk with a sour expression. 

"Good morning, Miss de Night." He greeted, a little tensely. "Have a seat." He commanded, gesturing to the seat she had first sat in. Ray leant against the wall to her left, and she waited for someone to explain what was going on. "I entered my office this morning to find a note from the Opera Ghost. In it, he was quite explicit in his wishes: you are to remain the..." he hesitated, "the _permanent_ Lighting Technician for the Populaire Theatre." He said the word 'permanent' with a grimace. "Under threat that anyone we brought in to replace you will...go the same way that the last permanent Lighting Technician went." 

Catherine glanced at Ray's stony expression. "...and what way was that?" she asked, not so sure she actually wanted to know. 

The manager stood up and poured himself a scotch. "Jack Polanyi, the best Lighting Technician I had ever the pleasure to meet had been working with us since we opened the Populaire Theatre fifteen years ago. Early this year he started complaining of disjointed voices and moving shadows. One afternoon we found Old Jack wandering around the backstage babbling to himself about nooses and faces, completely mad." She chewed nervously on her thumbnail as he continued. "We had him committed, and the doctors are...well, they do not expect a recovery. Until now, the Opera Ghost has been all too happy to let temporary Technicians go before their contracted time. You must understand, Miss de Night, that this sudden change in attitude has quite disconcerted us." 

Ray stepped forward now, and stood beside Dennis. "We are worried, Catherine." He elaborated. "You read the letter he sent to me, detailing his disapproval of you. Forgive us, Miss de Night, but we can't figure out why he has so changed his mind." He paused, and then continued: "I know the work of a Lighting Technician is sporadic, but so far you have not had the opportunity to demonstrate your abilities." 

"We have to ask, Miss de Night: do you know of any reason why he may have changed his mind?" Dennis pressed bluntly. 

She frowned, trying to compose a true answer that didn't give away the fact that she had been having secret interactions with him every night since she'd been working here. "I..." she hesitated, trying to phrase her words carefully and keep her voice nervous and confused. "I took courses in Technical Theatre. Perhaps he knows that?" she looked at them, desperate to get them to believe her. "Or...maybe he heard me talking with Mister West at some stage?" she tried. 

Ray and Dennis glanced at each other, doubt and confusion on their faces. But they believed her act, at least. Dennis leant across the polished surface of his desk towards her. "Miss de Night, is there _anything_ else? Any other reason you can think of that he might have to change his position towards you?" he asked gently. 

Catherine sat back in her seat, setting a despairing frown on her face. 'Well, yes!' she thought to herself, 'The Opera Ghost's alternate alias has been playing music for me every night for a month, and I'm only the second other person to ever hear his music. He has a soft spot towards me, because...' She gasped slightly, and the words slipped from her tongue before she could stop them: "Because I've shown him sympathy." 

Ray leaned forward, shocked. "What was that, Catherine?" he pressed. 

She stumbled to try and make her comment relevant. "Do you remember, Mister Giles? When you first told me about the Opera Ghost?" she asked him. 

He hummed flatly and stood back up, holding his stubbly chin with one hand as he thought. "Yes, I think I do." He answered. 

She looked at Dennis. "I was upset by the thought of someone having only negative interactions for fifteen years. I showed sympathy towards him...could that mean anything, Mister Finn?" she asked him, letting her voice quiver on the last question. 

He leant back, and looked at her with pitying eyes. Her stomach churned with annoyance at that –why was she being pitied, _exactly_? She was careful not to let her eyes or her face betray her annoyance, continuing to watch him fearfully. "Perhaps, Miss de Night." He agreed. "I think you can leave now. I believe you are re-setting the Light Bar this morning?" he prompted. 

"Yes, of course." She agreed. She stood and looked at them. "I'm keeping my job then, sirs?" she asked tentatively. 

"Yes, Catherine. Permanently." Ray answered. 

She nodded and hurried out of the office. She leant against the wall beside the door for a moment, taking a deep sigh of relief. 

"How much of that was lies?" a voice demanded. 

Catherine jumped and whirled to see Greg coming out of Ray's office (the one adjoining Dennis') with a suspicious face. "Greg! You frightened me." She gave a nervous laugh and looked at him with a friendly blank expression. "What did you ask?" she asked, walking down the hallway. 

He fell into step beside her. "I _asked_ , Catherine, how much of what you said to Ray and Mister Finn was a steaming pile of cow's manure?" he growled. 

She forced a bemused look. "I think I would've remembered if you'd phrased a question like that." She said, dry in tone and hushed. 

"Catherine!" he snapped, crowding her against the wall once they'd turned into the backstage of the theatre. "What are you hiding? Why are you hiding it?" he demanded, frustrated. 

"What makes you think I'm hiding _anything_?" she demanded icily. 

"If you're not hiding anything, then why didn't you tell them about the music?" he demanded. 

"The music?" she asked flippantly. 

"The music you hear at half two every morning!" he told her furiously, pacing back and forth in front of where she was standing. "The ghost's music?" he prompted. 

"I..." she paused. "I didn't think it mattered." She answered. 

"Doesn't matter?" he asked, disbelieving. He whirled to stare at her, scandalized. "The Opera Ghost is trying to persuade you by playing music _and you don't think it's **relevant**_?!" he screeched. 

She winced. "To answer that: _one_ , he's not trying to brainwash me with music! _Two_ ," she leant forward and hissed at him, "The music has nothing to do with any of this!" 

"Catherine, he's never played music for any of us!" Greg hissed back. 

She arched an eyebrow, crossing her arms under her chest. "He _plays_ music, and I _listen_ to it – that's hardly him playing music for me!" she retorted angrily. 

"What do you think he thinks of you _listening_ to it?" he demanded, his voice cold. 

She raised her other eyebrow and stared him down. "Is this an intervention or an inquisition, Greg?" she asked icily. He didn't answer, instead turned away and started pacing again furiously. "Why are you so obsessed with the Opera Ghost?" she demanded, weary. 

"Why?" he asked furiously. " _Why_?" he yelled. He took a deep breath and stopped to glare in the shadows steadily. "They never told you I was the one to find Old Jack." He said slowly, his voice carefully controlled. "It was my first day, and out of the shadows comes Jack Polanyi, with a crazy look in his eye talking about melting faces and nooses. It broke everyone to see him like that. Hell, _Joseph Burket_ only used to drink a single glass of champagne on Opening and Closing nights, or a scotch after a particularly stressful day. Look at him now, Cath: he's permanently inebriated!" 

"And it's all the fault of the Opera Ghost?" she asked dubiously. "And don't call me Cath." 

"You don't understand what he's done to this place, Catherine. Jack Polanyi was the best technician we've ever had. Even Joe Burket used to be able to make a hangman's noose in seconds!" Greg said, his voice despairing. "I'm trying to get you to see what the Ghost is capable of! I'm trying to give you warning to protect yourself from whatever game he's trying to lead you in to!" 

She frowned, growing rather uncomfortable. "Why, Greg? Why would any of that ever be any of your business?" she demanded. 

He suddenly moved closer to her, cupping a hand around her jaw. Her discomfort grew, and mild claustrophobia began in her mind. "Why, Catherine?" he asked softly. 

"Greg, what are you doing?" she asked warily. 

"Why is it my business?" he continued. "Because I care about you." He told her gently, and leaned in with slightly puckered lips. Catherine thrust her knee up, catching him in the thigh. He gasped and stepped back, expression furious. "What the hell?!" 

"How _dare_ you." She said, her voice low and dangerous. "Have I ever given you cause to even _think_ you could ever try that with me?" she demanded. " **Have I?!** " she yelled, on the verge of hysteria. 

"Catherine! I just..." 

"No! **I did not**!" she shouted. "In fact, I've given you more than enough hints to back off! Now seriously, get the _hell_ out of my face." 

"Catherine, you—" 

"Don't _make_ me tell you again!" she screeched. 

Greg frowned, a little desperately, but backed away and disappeared into the labyrinth that was the backstage. Catherine took a deep breath and closed her eyes, slumping against the wall. The air moved, almost imperceptively, and she felt soft, worn leather against her cheek. 

She smiled, "Phantom?" 

"Were you expecting the Fool?" the now-familiar voice asked, inflection curling in disgust. 

She scowled at the insides of her eyelids. "Did it sound like I would have wanted it to be him?" she demanded icily. She sighed again. "Don't you start too, please Phantom?" 

There was a tense silence, and then: "I can deny you nothing, Christine." It was whispered so soft, so cautious, that she knew instinctively that it was a deep admission. 

"Nothing?" she whispered. 

The hand on her face tensed slightly, but she could almost sense his curiosity as well. She bit her lip, hesitating. Maybe she shouldn't... "What is it, my dear?" he asked, gentleness warming his tone. 

"Will you sing to me again, tonight?" she asked, not daring to speak above a whisper. 

His grip loosened slightly, and he chuckled into the air. He lightly caressed her jaw-line. "I sing to you every night, Christine." He pointed out warmly. 

"I meant..." she hesitated, taking a deep breath and letting it out shakily. Why was it so hard to ask? 

"Go on, my dear." He encouraged her, fingers still tracing her jaw. 

She blushed slightly, resisting the urge to turn her face away. "I meant: will you sing to me at the piano?" she clarified, inwardly cringing. 

There was another silence as his hands continued to lightly follow her jaw-line, and she wished she could open her eyes and take in his expression. But she wouldn't: from what she'd gathered, the Opera Ghost had never shown himself (except maybe to Jack Polanyi), and if the Phantom had always come to her in shadows or when her eyes were closed, it was clear he didn't want her to see him. 

But, still, she found it irksome: she wanted to see him, wanted to know who it was she was entranced by, who it was to compose such beautiful music. Speaking of music...would he ever answer her question? 

She wanted to be with him again. She had asked him to sing to her again, _at the piano_. She wanted his company! No person had _ever_ wanted his company, not in his entire life time. It sent a spasm of hope through his chest – how could a girl on par with _Christine_ want to spend time with a monster? Perhaps that meant... 

Maybe he was not a monster? 

He shivered, fingers twitching against her face mid-caress. Her eyelids flickered, and he tensed – if she opened her eyes, he would have to hide himself in the shadows. He did not want to leave her, did not want to break the obstructed contact with her, but she could not see his face. He understood deeply that the moment she saw _that_ , she would not be so content to be in such close proximity to him. 

But her twitching eyelids betrayed the fact that she wanted to see him. If she asked...well, he could not deny her. He knew that he would have to reveal himself to her one day, but she would be frightened away by his face. 

Perhaps he should get a mask. 

"Phantom?" she asked tentatively. 

He was brought back from his musings, to look at her worried frown. "Yes." He answered, feeling half-strangled but making sure he did not sound it. "I will open the passageway at our usual time." He added, in confirmation. 

She sighed in relief, and smiled. "I was afraid you would say no." She admitted, looking and sounding a little embarrassed. 

He closed his eyes at the onslaught of joy that flooded through him at her words: she had been worried he would say no. A single tear slid from his left eye. No one had ever... Christine was far too precious. "I have told you: I can deny you nothing, ma chère." He whispered, with more conviction now than ever. 

She had wanted to be with him, been afraid he would not allow it. No one had ever cared so much about him. The joy he felt, in knowing that someone _could_...he was forever in her debt. She shivered at his words, eyelids twitching again. He sighed and ran his fingers along her jaw one last time. He really must get that mask – her request to see him would not be far along, and he wished to be prepared before she would ask. For now, he leant his half-marred forehead down against hers. "You needn't have worried." He told her gently. 

He pulled away, drinking in the sight of her face before saying, hiding his reluctance: "You have work to do today, ma chère." 

She frowned, pouting ever so slightly. "I do as well." 

He smirked in amusement, and stepped away. "I will see you later." He told her gently, echoing his voice as he slid into the shadows, effectively invisible. 

She opened her eyes slowly, and looked around. A flash of disappointment sparked, but she guarded her eyes and schooled her expression. "Until tonight, then." She whispered, half to herself, in the deceivingly empty-looking corridor. 

... 

Catherine had a headache. 

And her shoulders ached from how tense she was. It seemed Greg was trying his hardest to be in her line of sight at all times, taking every single opportunity to speak with her, all the time wearing his pathetic begging pout. 

At least everything was nearly finished. The only task left to do was hoist the bar back up and connect all the wires. She organized the groups, telling them exactly what job they were supposed to do. She herself took a place with the couple of stage hands on the left-side pulley. When they'd manoeuvred it into place, she left her Lighting Assistant to help the contracted Electrician and took a drink from a water bottle. 

She scowled and swallowed deliberately as Greg came up to her, his expression nervous. She frowned, resisting the urge to cross her arms – she didn't want to deal with this. "Look...Cath, about earlier..." 

"Catherine." She corrected stiffly. 

"What?" he asked, confused. 

"The name is Catherine." She commented, making sure her tone of voice and facial expression told him she was not pandering to him. "I don't think there's anything more that needs to be said about earlier, do you?" she said pointedly. 

"Um, no." He agreed, shuffling from foot to foot. "I'll be, um, I'll just..." he turned around and started walking away. After a few steps, he stopped and turned around to face her with a scowl on his face. "No, actually, I think there _is_ more that needs to be said about earlier. You haven't even let me explain!" 

She frowned back. "You're acting like a child." She told him. 

"Quit patronizing me!" he cried petulantly. "I _was_ going to apologize, but now I don't think I will!" She shrugged and turned away, putting her water bottle back on the desk. "...aren't you going to ask me to?" he asked warily. 

"If you don't want to apologize, I'm not going to force you into one you clearly wouldn't mean. You don't _regret_ trying to force me into anything, and it's obvious you're not sorry about it. I don't want a hollow apology. Now, if you have nothing left to say, get the hell away from me." She warned, turning around to glare him down. 

She noticed with vague discomfort that they had gathered an audience, and she glanced at them coldly. They mostly dispersed before she was folding her arms under her chest and staring down Greg. 

He was pouting again, pathetically. "Will you let me explain?" he asked. 

She threw her hands up in the air helplessly. "What is there to explain? You're attracted to me, you made an unwelcome move at an inappropriate moment. You're not sorry that you did it, you're sorry that I rejected you. Now you want to smooth things over so you can work on your next opportunity." He was staring at her with slack-jawed surprise. "I think I covered everything. _Get out of my face_." She warned with a growl. He backed away with a flush of embarrassment, and started helping some stage-hands move a tall ladder. 

Catherine shook her head, frustrated, and surveyed the work of Paul and the Electrician. She heard a low whistle behind her and saw Ray looking up as well. "Speedy work, Miss de Night. I didn't expect you to be done for another hour or two." He admitted. 

She shrugged, "I wanted to get it done as quickly as possible." She answered matter-of-factly. 

Ray frowned slightly, but nodded. "I came to inform you, Miss de Night, that Mark's final lighting plan has been approved." He handed her a folder. "You'll start hanging and focussing lights tomorrow. All the Lighting Crew and available stage hands will be notified. Nine o'clock start okay?" he asked, tone obvious that it was not going to change, regardless. 

She forced a smile, upset by his manner. "That's perfectly fine, Mister Giles." She informed him. 

"The lights should be done by the end of the week. There's a rehearsal on Sunday for lights. That's not a problem, is it?" He was practically sneering at her! What the hell had she done wrong? Other than earn the Ghost's approval, of course. 

She forced a friendly smile, and she saw his confusion at her manner. "I'll get what I can have finished done by then." A rather despairing thought hit her: "Will the set be finished for Sunday?" she asked, keeping her tone business-like. 

He scowled at her, and she wondered what line she had just toed. "The set designs have not been approved yet, Miss de Night. You will just have to do without." He commented curtly, before turning and leaving her on the stage – she glanced around to the absence of technicians – completely alone. 

With a sigh of relief, she leant against the proscenium and sunk tiredly onto the floor, resisting the urge to burst into tears. She had to do a whole show...hanging, patching, angling and focusing lights, setting and recording lighting states, checking for black spots, adjusting levels and setting timing, all without a set...in four days. Four and a half if the lighting rehearsal started in the afternoon. All that had taken Ledger two weeks with at least fifteen lighting students to do, and she had _four days_! She took a deep, calming breath and looked at the lighting plan... 

...before bursting into tears. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 11: Doesn't Change A Thing?**

* * *

The Phantom of the Opera frowned – what on earth was Christine doing still working at this time of night? It was drawing near ten o'clock, and she still hadn't gone to the cafeteria for dinner. 

Perhaps she had an early dinner. There was a good few hours she could've utilized. He'd gone to the old Opera House's costume department and began the plaster cast he could build his mask on. Mister Finn had all the costumes made outside the theatre since the first production when the Opera Ghost had burnt a whole set of costumes when they were not appropriate. 

He had left it to set at seven o'clock – the time Christine usually went to dinner in the staff cafeteria – and headed up to the Opera House only to find her wandering around backstage. He had followed her as she headed up a mezzanine without pause to look at the 'dimmer racks' for the lights. She had then headed back onto the stage, sitting by the proscenium with the lighting designs spread before her. 

She was flicking through various bits of paper, writing notes on a pad of paper from who knew where. He wondered exactly what it was that had set that frown deep into her face and caused the redness in her eyes. If the Fool had made her cry! His fists clenched, leather creaking with the strain. 

She glanced up and around the stage, stopping when she came to where he was standing. He realized with a start that he was only half-hidden in the shadows. To her, it would appear to be a silhouette...but she knew what silhouettes meant in this theatre. 

"Miss de Night," he delivered curtly, playing the Opera Ghost and making his voice come from seemingly everywhere and nowhere, "my stage is not your personal work area." 

She sighed softly in disappointment, but nodded. "My apologies, O.G., I didn't realise I wasn't allowed to work on the stage after-hours." She packed up the lighting designs into a bundle and got to her feet, looking at him at head-level. 

"See that you don't." He said curtly. 

Christine scowled and turned on her heel, stalking off the stage. He watched her go, a small amused smile settling on his face. He shook his head and slipped into the shadows, turning the lights off as he went. 

... 

She had not gone to bed until midnight. He was concerned, and had she not asked for their meeting, he would have been content to let her rest. But she had asked, and he could deny her nothing. He opened the mirror a fraction and lit the first torch, waiting as he checked his pocket-watch. 2:27, she should wake herself soon. 

Christine moaned sleepily and turned, but otherwise did not wake. He waited, silent, trying to repress the ache in his chest. When she did not wake, he closed his eyes against the pain and tried to reason it away: she was obviously exhausted, and her sleep-denied brain had refused to wake itself. 

He would try once to wake her, and if she resisted...he would content himself to let her sleep. He sent his voice to whisper gently, but alluringly, in her ear: "Christine..." 

She jolted upright, awake, and frowned groggily as she reached for her mobile. He was glad he had not crept closer, stepping into the light. It would not have done to let her see him just yet. She swore under her breath and pulled her dressing gown from a suitcase and wrapping it around herself as she crossed the room to the mirror. 

He led her through the passageways to the piano room, making the sensors light the torches and ducking beyond the light pool before he could be seen. She followed wordlessly, still clearly tired, but determined. 

He stood behind the piano, watching carefully as she entered and looked for his silhouette. She sighed in relief and gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm late." She admitted, embarrassed. 

He smiled to himself, but did not let it show in his voice. "You did not sleep until late. You are forgiven." He conceded. 

She sighed in relief and sat on the couch, watching him patiently. He sat on the piano seat and let his fingers splay over the keys. He began playing, and she settled back into the couch. He watched her relax from the corner of his eye, the tension melting from her shoulders and frown smoothing out. He smiled and turned back to the music, letting the missing notes fill themselves in. 

When he looked back at Christine, she was lying on the couch curled on her side, eyes staring at him with a smile on her face. He turned back to the piano, smiling. 

There was silence between them, except for the music, until her voice interrupted: 

"What did Jack Polanyi do?" 

She cringed as the words came out of her mouth, and the crashing of notes screaming to a halt made her wince deeper. What the hell had she asked that for? She resisted the urge to bang her head against the armrest and chant 'Catherine is an idiot' repeatedly. 

The silhouette whirled to face her before the lights cut off instantly, her wince increased again and she squeezed her eyes closed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" she cried hurriedly, "I wasn't even thinking about it before, it just came out!" she explained hurriedly. 

There was a tense silence, and she felt her muscles ache from being held taught for so long. But she couldn't tell her muscles to relax. She twitched, muscles burning and took a deep breath. "Please, Phantom, you don't have to answer." She whimpered, "Please, just forgive me." She begged. 

She heard a sigh and the music began playing again, tentative, but calming. "You are forgiven, Christine." The Phantom whispered. The song continued, and she felt the music slowly relax all of her muscles. "Do you want to know?" he asked softly. 

"I'm curious." She admitted slowly, warily. "But you don't have to—" 

"He found out I was a man." He explained, cutting her off. 

She waited, expecting more of an answer. She swallowed nervously. "I found out you're a man." She pointed out. 

"This is different." He explained gently. "When he found that out, he tried to blackmail me. I had to deal with him." He said. 

Catherine frowned to herself. Blackmail was wrong, that much she knew (no thanks to her mother's attempt at life lessons), but purposely driving someone insane... She shook her head – it wasn't right for her to think like this. "Okay." She conceded. 

The Phantom sighed. "Christine, you don't understand..." he began pleadingly. 

"No, I don't." She agreed matter-of-factly. He was silenced. "I _don't_ understand." She agreed. She stood and walked over to where she knew the piano was and sat down on the seat. She felt the warmth of a person beside her on the bench and fingered the ivories gently. "You realise this doesn't change anything, right?" she asked. 

The body beside her stiffened. "Pardon?" he asked warily. 

"This doesn't change anything between us." She told him gently, pressing down on a key. She tried another key two above it and winced, taking her fingers off the keys. "I wasn't here then, and I don't properly understand the intricacies of the situation, and I've only heard an account of the events eight months later." She explained. Leather-encased hands picked up hers and positioned them over different keys, and she pushed them in gently. "I can't form an opinion because of that." 

"Here, move a little to the left." He told her gently, looping one arm around her to reach her end of the piano. She shifted, gasping lightly when she felt warm flesh against her thigh and side of her torso. "Relax." He whispered. He began playing a familiar intro, and before long was beginning to sing: " _Shamed into solitude, shunned by the multitude..._ " 

She took a deep breath, shivering as the vibrations of his voice rumbled through her side and down the length of her body. As the song continued, she found herself leaning deeper into his side, eyes closing and revelling in the sensations. Before she knew it, the song was finished, and he was vocalising along with her lullaby. 

_Well_ , she thought with a yawn, _a lullaby really has one purpose._

Christine had fallen asleep...on _his_ shoulder. He smiled, a single tear slipping from his left eye, and pulled her closer. She didn't wake, but hummed a b-flat in her sleep and nestled into his chest. He smiled, resting his cheek against her hair and breathed deeply. She smelt of vanilla and dust. He sighed and secured an arm around her shoulders. 

He knew from experience how much pain she would be in tomorrow if she slept at a piano, and that would simply not do – she had lights to hang. Slowly, taking care to make the movement as fluid as possible, he lifted her up and carried her carefully from a room. 

He flushed slightly when he remembered the name of this particular position – the bridal hold. He swallowed nervously, but kept calm. It wouldn't do to jolt her now and, besides, this was the most comfortable hold for both of them. She nestled closer into his chest and wrapped a hand around his cravat. He swallowed an uncomfortable lump that formed in his throat. 

He made the trip quickly, keeping his gait smoother than he had ever attempted, trying his hardest not to wake the sleeping girl. 

She did not stir, other than to occasionally worm her way closer into his chest. It was these moments that he feared his racing heart would rouse her, but she stayed asleep. Before long they were outside the Carlotta Suite, the mirror left open from her hasty exit. 

The lump in his throat returned as he laid her gently against the pale pink sheets, easing his arms from underneath her body as smoothly as he could. When he tried to pull away, her fingers clenched around his cravat and he smiled. Well...one could hardly be blamed for their actions in slumber. 

He took her hand in his and tried to uncurl her fingers, only to find she clenched them tighter. He chuckled lightly, and pulled at her fingers again. "Christine." He whispered closer to her ear. She hummed another b-flat and shifted closer towards him. He sighed. "Christine." He repeated, a little louder. She didn't stir. "Christine." He tried again. 

Her eyelids flickered, but she nestled her head deeper into the pillow. With another sigh and wry grin, he untied the knot and drew the rest of his cravat out of his collar. He turned and left the suite, pausing in the doorway and looking back. 

The cravat was still clenched in Christine's fist, but that fist was now tucked closer to her face. He smiled, as he turned back to the corridor and slid the mirror closed properly. 

' _This doesn't change anything between us_ ', she'd said. His smile gave way to a confused frown. She was wrong: tonight had changed so much. 

... 

The only thing Catherine could smell when she woke up was chocolate, and her stomach was growling desperately in outrage. The scent was deeply familiar, but she'd only smelt it – she opened her eyes and stared at the length of ivory cloth in her hands. She'd only ever smelt that particular chocolaty scent on the Phantom. Which meant...she smelt the strip of cloth, which meant that this belonged to him? 

She frowned as she sat up, feeling the resistance of her dressing gown trapped under her body. She looked around oddly at the room – what on earth had happened? How had she gotten to her bed, with the Phantom's – what was it? A tie? – tie wrapped around her fist. Tiredly, she stood up, struggling with her dressing gown on the way, and looked around the room. 

She sighed: just because she couldn't remember, didn't mean she couldn't have gotten there herself. When she was very tired she tended to not remember what had happened. She'd woken up many times as a child in her bed, having fallen asleep on the fur rug by the fire. She must half-sleep walk, or something. 

What confused her, however, was how she'd ended up with the Phantom's tie? Shaking her head, she draped it purposely over the back of the armchair closest to the mirror and left the curtain open. She saw the pile of lighting designs and a frown settled onto her face. How the hell had she forgotten? Four days to do the entire show's lights from plans. She checked the time and sighed in relief: seven am. At least she'd have time to eat this morning! 

An hour and a half later, she was sitting on the stage stairs with a notebook, re-calculating exactly how many lights she would need, and how many she guessed would have to come out of storage. First things first, she had to get all of these lights down from the bars to see exactly what was up there. 

Okay. A whole stage of lights to take down, with ten pairs of hands to the job... "Yay." She muttered sarcastically. If they worked hard, maybe they could get all the lights taken down by the end of the afternoon. She really couldn't spare any more time. The only question now, was whether she should work from the cyclorama outwards, or the bio box inwards? 

At nine, the first few stage hands arrived, and by half past they were all assembled – including Greg, she noted bitterly. "Okay, guys. We're going kick off by taking down all the lights. We'll start at the back of the auditorium, so let's go." She instructed. 

All ten of them headed out of the auditorium and Catherine sighed before following them: it was going to be a long, exhausting, stressful day. 

... 

The Phantom was watching the work from his Box. Christine had spent the whole day working mostly without rest other than the far too infrequent stop for a drink with the rest of the technical crew. It was nearing four o'clock, and they were on the first bar of lights on the stage. She finished bringing down a floodlight and rested it on the ground, before heading to her unofficial corner and taking a drink from a drink bottle. 

It was then that the Theatre Director approached her, from his place standing on the edge of the stage. He wore a hesitant, but pleasantly surprised expression. "What can I do you for, Mister Giles?" she asked, her tone business-like. 

"I must say, Miss de Night, I've been watching you today, and I for one approve of the Ghost's decision to keep you here." He said in a hushed tone of voice. Christine looked taken aback, but didn't say anything. "The other Lighting Technicians would have stood back and given all the orders in this situation, and frankly _have_. I think your work ethic is admirable." 

She arched an eyebrow, "...and here I was thinking I was palming off all the work onto the stage hands." She remarked flatly. 

"Anyway, you and your crew have been working hard day, bar an hour's lunch. Why don't you wrap up now?" he suggested. 

Christine's eyes screamed fury and outrage, but her expression and body language was neutral. "Mister Giles, we've only got an hour left. I am aiming to have as much done as quickly as possible. You're welcome to join us, but otherwise I'm going to have to ask you to clear the stage." She told him. 

Mister Giles looked affronted, but not insulted. "Of course. You're doing some very good work, Miss de Night." He told her, before leaving the auditorium. 

Christine worked alongside the rest of the crew until five o'clock, when she dismissed them. He frowned in disapproval, however, when she did not leave, but rather continued the work they had been doing all day. He scowled – _she_ hadn't eaten lunch with the others, and here she was working longer than the crew. 

Was she worried she wouldn't get things done in time? He shook his head with a small smile: he knew she would do well enough. He did not doubt in her competency. 

She continued working until every light was off the bar and lying on the stage. After that, she walked up and down the stage, writing notes on that same notebook. The Phantom decided he did not like that notebook – there was always a deep frown on her face whenever she was using it. Once she'd been past every one of them, she packed up her things and went back to the Carlotta Suite. 

He headed down to his lair – he had spent his day watching the progress of the lights, but he had work of his own to do. He had decided on a mask of porcelain, and he was eager to have it finished as soon as possible. Christine's curiosity would win out eventually, and she would ask to see him. He could deny her nothing, but he would not frighten her away with his face. 

... 

Thankfully, there were enough lights left from the last show. Other than a couple of P-C's that she'd had to order that were coming in tomorrow, everything could be easily done. Catherine was tempted to start changing gels in the afternoon, but she didn't think it was worth the time. She used the time instead to better organize her plan of attack for tomorrow. 

She was sure they could get most of the lights hung up and patched in by tomorrow. Anything else left she would have to finish by herself. She would need the following two days for angling and focusing, the following day for creating lighting states and setting levels. 

With a frown, she flipped over in bed and glared into her pillow. She needed to stop thinking. 

She had to stop worrying about the lights. She needed to stop planning how she could set states into the sliders, and then go through the script one by one and set those scenes into the stacks. She could pretty much remember the basic blocking for the scenes, and Mark's plans were (thankfully) detailed in what kind of lights needed to be where and when. She was rushed off her feet, but she would have everything ready for the rehearsal on Sunday. 

She frowned and opened her eyes sleepily, not remembering falling asleep. She had been dreaming of hanging lights, and the theatre had kept growing larger and larger, making her task endless and stressful. She knew by habit that it was 2:27 and she opened her eyes. She stared in confusion at the darkness – shouldn't the mirror have been lit up already? She flicked the lamp on, and scowled at the curtain pulled almost fully closed. Was she not wanted tonight? 

She stood up and fastened her dressing gown around herself. She crossed the room and yanked the curtain aside. Her own reflection frowned back at her. Sighing softly, she checked the edges of the mirror to see if it was open, not bothering to hope that it was. "Phantom?" she whispered softly. Nothing happened, and she sighed, pushing on the mirror unhappily. 

There was a hissing noise, the glass slid fractionally to the side. She blinked in surprise, and slipped her fingers in the gap, pulling it open. She stuck her head through the gap and frowned – it was completely dark beyond the mirror. "Phantom?" she whispered again, uncertainly. 

She slipped inside and started walking. She knew all the turns, but it was dark. She held a hand out warily in front of her, squinting uselessly in the darkness. She slid her feet warily across the stone, watching out for raised stones or unexpected obstacles. 

She felt leather around her raised hand as the Phantom took her hand in his. "Phantom." She breathed a sigh of relief. 

"Forgive me, Christine." He requested softly. "I lost track of time, and I did not expect your company tonight." 

Worry twisted her gut. "Didn't you want it?" she asked quietly. 

He paused, let go of her hand, and put both of his against her face. "You mean so much to me, Christine. I will always want your company." He told her gently. "You did not ask, that is all." 

Catherine nodded. He took her hand again, and they continued her journey. "What were you busy with?" she asked. 

There was a slight pause, but they continued. "What are you referring to?" he questioned quietly. 

"You said you lost track of time. Usually you're busy when that happens. I was curious about what you were doing." She answered. There was a long silence. "Will you tell me?" she asked gently. 

"No." He answered matter-of-factly. "I would prefer it if you didn't know." 

Catherine ignored the thought that immediately leapt to mind, and dismissed any further concerns about the situation. She allowed herself to be led along, unseeing eyes drooping the further they went. She was so tired...and she had so much to do tomorrow! 

"What's wrong?" the Phantom asked, concerned. 

"Hm?" she hummed tiredly. 

"You tensed." He explained gently. "What are you thinking about?" he asked curiously. 

"Lights." She answered. "It took us all day, minus a lunch break, to get all the lights taken down today. I know that there's two more steps to hanging the lights than there is to taking them down. Why the hell didn't I take the gels _off_ the lights this evening?" She stopped and started walking in the other direction. 

She met resistance when the Phantom didn't change his direction. "Where are you going?" he asked curiously. 

"I need to go take the gels out of the lights. It'll save half an hour of work!" she told him desperately, tugging in the other direction. 

"Christine, it's quarter to three in the morning. It's no time to be taking gels out of lights. Besides, all the security alarms are set." He remarked dryly. 

She paused. "You know the security codes. You could turn them off for me." She realised. 

"I am not going to." He told her pointedly. He let go of her hand, and she stood around staring into the darkness before she heard a door open. 

Light faded up into existence, and she stepped into the piano room with a pout. "Fine, don't be helpful." She muttered. 

The silhouette chuckled slightly. "Christine, you'll have plenty of time." He tried to sound reassuring. 

Now she was sleepy _and_ outraged. She tried to yank the door open, but the handle wouldn't budge. "Let me out!" she hissed angrily. He did not, and she tugged fruitlessly again. "Phantom, let me go!" 

He began to play a simple tune on the piano. "Christine, I understand you are upset about me not letting you trespass in my theatre in the dark hours of morning." He said calmly. 

"I'm not upset about _that_!" she yelled angrily. "I'm upset because you just _expect_ me to be able to get everything done by _Sunday_!" 

There was a tense silence. The notes drifted to a halt and the Phantom lifted his fingers from the keys. "Christine, I do not expect more of you than you are capable of doing." He told her. "You needn't doubt yourself. I believe in your abilities." 

She scowled and folded her arms. "You know the crucial part of 'believe' is the word 'lie', don't you?" she challenged cynically. 

The Phantom chuckled quietly. "Point." He agreed. "I _trust_ in your abilities – is that better?" he asked. 

"Yes." She answered petulantly. She crossed and sat down on the couch. 'The Ballad of Sweeney Todd' began to play and she glared at the silhouette. "Not this again." She complained. 

"I will not have you angry, Christine." He told her calmly over the crashing notes. 

Catherine crossed her arms under her chest. "I have every right to _be_ angry." She snapped. The music was working, and her anger was building steadily towards its climax. Who the hell was he to control her with music! And damn it, it looked like Greg was right after all – the Phantom _was_ controlling her through his music. 

"Regardless of how justified your anger is, I will not have it spoil the evening." Did he have to speak in that infuriatingly calm tone of voice? It was... **infuriating**! 

She got to her feet and paced back and forth, fists clenching and digging into her ribs. What was she even doing here, anyway? They apparently hadn't had an outstanding engagement. He'd been busy! Doing other _secretive_ things! He was hiding stuff from her _and that was practically **lying**_! 

The music drifted off and so did the remnants of her anger. She sunk back into the couch and hugged her knees, the silhouette's watchful gaze adding heavily to the weight on her shoulders. Who was she to judge sins of omission? She was deceiving the whole world but her family and the man waiting patiently in front of her. "Catherine de Night is a legally registered alias." She admitted at a whisper. "I didn't want the world to have Christine Daae pinned as a theatre technician. 'De Night' isn't even a real surname, I took it from graffiti." 

Though she could barely hear her own voice, she knew the Phantom had heard her. "Christine, my dear...what has brought this on?" he asked gently. 

"I don't like lying." She said, feeling hurt for some unexplained reason. "I feel like I'm lying to the whole world, deceiving them with false names." 

The silhouette shifted, and the lights faded down. She felt weight on the couch beside her and a hand on her face. She gasped lightly at the absence of a glove, but leant into the the touch. "If it helps, think of your other name as a title." He suggested gently. "Are titles a form of deceit?" he asked patiently. 

She bit her lip as she tested her feelings on the matter. "No, it's not." She answered slowly, as her mind wrapped around the idea. "Titles are... They're not deceitful. They are just...another way of knowing someone." 

The Phantom seemed to sigh in relief, and the papery pad of his thumb stroked down her jaw-line. "Christine, you are anything but deceitful." He whispered gently. "Catherine de Night is your title, how the world _knows_ you. As long as you act and speak truthfully, you are honest." He answered. 

"I know what honesty is." She teased gently, turning her face into his hand and gently kissing a fingertip. "Thank you, Phantom." She whispered. She yawned slightly and closed her eyes in the darkness. "Will you play for me? Just something short, so I can go back to sleep soon." She requested gently. 

He withdrew his hand and she heard a slither of leather. "Come, we will return. I will sing to you on the way." She felt a gloved hand tentatively against her own, and she laced her fingers through his and he gently pulled her to her feet. They walked quickly, but not rushed. Some time along the way, the Phantom began to wordlessly vocalise her lullaby and she felt her eyelids drooping. 

With another yawn, she stumbled, and warm arms were instantly around her waist, steadying her. She sighed and leant her head against a firm chest covered in layers of soft fabric. "Sorry." She mumbled into the warm fabric. "But I'm helpless when it comes to that lullaby." She explained tiredly. He began to vocalize it again, and she felt the vibrations from his voice wrap her into an enchanting cocoon. On the edge of her memory, she could remember the violin that played along with it. She grinned wryly, sleep clawing at her. "If you continue this, I'm going to fall asleep." 

"Sleep, ma chère." He whispered in her ear, without moving his head. 

She could only obey. 

* * *

**Chapter 12: Poor Fool, He Makes Me Laugh**

* * *

The Phantom had taken out the gels in the middle of the night. 

Catherine had almost burst into tears when she'd seen that – the cellophane-like squares set in metal frames lying alongside the lights almost innocently. But she'd only let herself be touched a moment before she forced herself to move on. She took away the ones that needed to be changed or replaced, and put the new ones back alongside the lights. It was half-eight when she started, and her stomach strained in complaint: she'd had no time for breakfast this morning, either. 

By nine, her tech crew had turned up. She sent them to the rooms that accessed the lights over the auditorium, following them and doing all the gel-changes she could while they began hanging up lights. They worked with no breaks but for water until one, when she sent the crew out to lunch. Her stomach protested with a tiny growl about not being allowed to go with them, but she focused instead on finishing the lights above the auditorium. 

When the tech crew returned, she set them to work on the stage while she finished up the couple of lights in this section. The rest of the crew were chatting amiably, but going fast enough that she didn't worry herself to tell them to stop. These guys were professional – they worked quickly and efficiently, with skill that made her rather ashamed of her own. By the time five o'clock rolled around, they were mostly finished on the stage. 

She stood before the congregated techies with a warm smile. "Thanks for coming in, guys! I'll finish up hanging the rest of these lights, so your work is done here! Go have a drink, guys – you've earned it!" 

A few of them laughed, but they complied with her parting words eagerly. They left the theatre and headed in the direction of the Theatre Bar. Catherine sighed tiredly and leaned her aching head against the cold metal of a ladder for a moment. Her stomach gurgled impatiently, which she ignored, and glanced around at the dozen lights that still needed hanging. Stretching her stiff neck (resulting in a sharp crack), she pulled the ladder under the next empty space. 

She moved quickly, working to a no-nonsense mind-set. Her stomach growled desperately, and her sense of safety worried about what a bad idea it was to be climbing up tall ladders without any one around to watch. Ignoring both, she picked up the first light and started her ascent. On the second last one, she started feeling a little lightheaded. She stopped at the top of the ladder, light hung and secured, and took several deep breaths with her eyes closed. 

Her stomach growled and she resolved that she would have to eat. She would come back and hang the last lights after that. If she tried feeling like this, it would just be asking for trouble. 

Taking a further deep breath, she began to make her way down the ladder. She blacked out before she reached the second rung. 

... 

The Phantom had been busy, putting the final touches on the mask before he put it in the kiln, then composing a little. When five o'clock drew close, he went to theatre and hid in the wings, watching Christine wrap up their work. 

When the other technicians began to leave, he hid himself within the deep shadows of the backstage. She leant against the ladder for some time, and he frowned in concern – she really looked very tired. He frowned in disapproval when he heard her stomach growl. Had she skipped lunch again to work today? She moved then, neck cracking as she stretched out the tense muscles. She manoeuvred the ladder carefully across the floor of the stage. Surely she wasn't thinking of... 

He scowled in disapproval when she picked up a light and began to make her way up the ladder. Was she _crazy_? Did she know nothing about safety? She shouldn't be climbing ladders without anyone around to watch her. Well, there was him, but he hadn't allowed her to feel that he was here yet. He forced himself to wait, watching, his muscles coiled and ready to spring lest something happen. His heart raced with adrenaline when she stopped after her penultimate light, closing her eyes and taking deep breaths. He saw familiar trembling in her hands and raced to the bottom of the ladder as she missed the second rung and fell through the air. 

She landed gracelessly in his arms, and he lowered her unconscious form gently to the stage floor. A sharp intake of breath alerted his attention, and he turned his head to see the Fool staring at them with concern and shock. As he took in the Phantom, his skin took on an unnatural pallor and he looked ready to heave: the same he had appeared the first time they had come face-to-face. 

The Fool seemed to take a deep breath and bring himself under control. He stepped closer, and the Phantom tensed, ready to bolt if the Fool tried to attack. But the younger man seemed determined to ignore him as much as possible. He instead put a hand against Christine's forehead. "Is she okay?" he asked awkwardly. 

"I did not hurt her." The Phantom told him, defensively. 

The Fool's jaw tensed. "I know. I saw her fall off the ladder. It was lucky you were here to catch her in time." He explained, grudgingly. 

"I don't think she has eaten today." The Phantom answered. He resisted the urge to stroke her cheek and repressed the smile that threatened to grow when he thought of the earlier night. Christine had allowed him to touch her with his bare hands, had kissed his fingers. When they had been returning, she had stumbled and he had embraced her to keep her from falling further. She did not pull away, but instead moved in deeper. She had fallen asleep against his chest at his permission, and had once again tried to keep him in place when he tried to pull away. This time, he had managed to pull his cravat from her grasp, and she was none the wiser. 

"I didn't see her at breakfast, and she stayed behind at lunch." The Fool agreed, interrupting his train of thought. "Plus, I did't see her at dinner last night." He added, concerned. 

The Phantom scowled, getting swiftly to his feet: how dare she be so reckless? Was she unaware of how precious she was to him? "It is _your_ job to make sure she eats at all appropriate times from now on. Bring food to _her_ , if necessary." He informed the now frowning Fool. 

"Is that right?" he asked petulantly. 

The Phantom fixed him with a dark, threatening frown. " _That_ , monsieur, was a command." He answered coldly. 

The Fool cowered slightly, but an air of defiance and conspiracy glimmered in her eyes. "Okay then." He agreed. 

Suspicion rising, but ignoring it, the Phantom flicked his cloak to confuse the Fool and disappeared into the shadows in what would look to the Fool as instantly. The was a mask five stories below awaiting the kiln, and he was desperate now to have it finished as soon as possible. It would break him to see the Fool's reaction on his dear Christine's sweet face. 

... 

The first thing Catherine thought upon coming around was: "Why doesn't my head hurt?" 

"You never hit your head on the ground." A familiar voice answered. She opened her eyes blearily to see Greg watching her with somewhat-exaggerated concern. "I caught you." 

"When did you get here?" she asked, muddled. 

"Just as it was happening. You're lucky I have such quick reflexes." He answered. She frowned: now that was just suspicious – Greg's reflexes were _shocking_. "When was the last time you ate?" he demanded, voice dripping with concern. 

She cast her mind back. "Uh..." 

"Never a good sign." He pointed out, getting to his feet and offering a hand to help her up. She ignored it and got up on her own. "Not remembering when you last ate. That means it's been too long." He remarked. "Come on, we're going to dinner." He announced. 

"Huh?" she asked, bewildered. 

"I have decided," he began grandly, "That it's my responsibility to make sure you eat regularly. I can't have you falling off any more ladders." 

"How noble." She muttered bitterly. "Greg, I don't need a baby-sitter." She told him pointedly. 

"Says she who just passed out because she hasn't eaten for two days." He countered mockingly. Her fists clenched unconsciously: if he was so _concerned_ , why the bloody hell was he mocking her for it? He was hiding something, _lying_ to her. "We are going to dinner." He remarked. 

Surrendering to his stubborn will, she rolled her eyes and gestured at him to lead the way. 

And like that, Greg seemed to think their relationship was miraculously restored. He was chatting aimlessly about pointlessness, and she tried to look politely interested while her mind focused anywhere else but the infuriating idiot. 

She ate silently, but Greg filled the gap with seemingly endless chatter. When she'd finished eating, he followed her dutifully all the way back to the theatre. She frowned helplessly when he didn't stop, even when she climbed to the top of the ladder and secured the final light to the bar and plugged it in. She got to the bottom and turned a frown at him. "Greg, just stop it, please." She requested softly. 

He drifted to halt mid-sentence, watching her warily for a moment. "Stop what?" he asked, confused. 

"This whole thing: your non-stop blather, the desperation in trying to get us back to where you want us to be, that ridiculous childish pout. It's been a long, tiring day, and yes – I am grateful that you saved my life." He opened his mouth to say something, but she barrelled on: "Very grateful, but that doesn't give you leverage. I don't play the guilt game." 

He frowned, desperate. "But, I...I saved your life!" he pointed out. 

"And I've said thank you about sixteen times now, when you gave me a gap to get a word in. Are you forgetting you tried to force yourself on me two days ago?" she asked calmly. 

"Force my—I didn't!" he protested, horrified. 

"You tried force me to kiss you." She answered, repressed anger curling acid into her words. "You did, and that was a massive trespass over your boundaries. We're _friends_ , Greg, and you will never be anything more than that." She told him plainly. 

Greg looked upset, and frowned. "Is there someone else, Cath?" he demanded. 

Her frown threatened to turn into a scowl. She let the name thing pass just this once. "I've told you countless times that I don't have a boyfriend." She reminded him coldly. 

"Then, why—" he started. 

She was scowling now. " _Why_ does there **have** to be someone else, Greg?" she demanded angrily. "I don't _like_ you like that, plain and simple! Why do you automatically assume that there is someone else?" 

He frowned, contemplating. "You haven't said there _isn't_ someone else." He mused. 

"I do **not** have a boyfriend!" she yelled furiously. "Get over your ego, Greg! I _will **never**_ think of you like that. Ever." 

He looked wounded, but his eyes were set in determination. "Never is a long time. I'll prove it to you, Catherine. I'll prove that it's possible." 

She took a step back warily. "I swear, Greg Mabry, if you try and kiss me again _you will regret it_." She threatened. 

Somewhere above them a catwalk creaked, and Greg looked up with a calculating expression. With a frown, he looked back at her. "No more kissing attempts, then." He agreed. "But I'll find another way to get you to give me a chance." He turned to the backstage, and then looked over his shoulder at her with a smirk. "I'll collect you for breakfast tomorrow. Until then, have a good night." 

She sighed in frustration. It was going to be a busy few days. 

... 

Catherine had bitten all her nails short and blistered the pads of her fingers, but it was done. She yawned widely and turned off the lights of the bio-box. She would be ready to collapse in relief and sleep for a month, but she still had the rehearsal tomorrow to deal with. The last two days had been hellish, and true to both his promises, Greg was collecting her for all three of her meals and trying to convince her she should date him while they were doing so. His second mission was beyond futile, but she was well-fed. The Phantom of the Opera was still keeping their half-two reservation, and for the past two nights he'd just played soothing music to iron out her frazzled nervous. Any time she hadn't been listening to his music, she was pretty sure she was slowly being driven insane by lighting percentages and black spots and light coverage and blending and a million other things that would mean next to nothing to anyone else. 

She sighed and slipped into the secret passageway: what time was it, anyway? 

"You're running late for our music." An irked voice remarked from the shadows. 

Catherine jumped in fright and looked around the blackness warily. She took out her phone and checked the time with a wince. Quarter to three. "I'm really sorry!" she apologised honestly. "I was finishing up the lights...is that _really_ the time?" she asked in disbelief. 

A shadow strayed into the edge of the light from her torch. She caught sight of a three-piece, old-fashioned suit until the Phantom stepped back out of the light. "You've been working on lights all this time?" he asked curiously, almost disbelieving. 

"Yes. I finally finished." She answered tiredly. She stifled a yawn with her fist. "Shall we?" she asked, pointing down the hallway. The torch turned off with a click, and she arched a tired eyebrow before she felt warm, papery skin against her hand. She shivered at the full-body-sensation of the contact and allowed herself to be led away – it was getting like this whenever skin touched skin. It was thrilling in an unexpected way. She'd never expected to feel so comforted and excited by simply holding hands! 

She frowned a little as he pulled her off the memorised course and took her down an unexpected flight of stairs. She'd nearly lost her footing, but two hands at her waist immediately steadied her. The Phantom's presence seemed sort of...distracted. 

"What are you thinking about?" she heard herself asking, dimly. 

The angle of his arm changed fractionally as he turned to look at her in surprise, "Pardon, ma chère?" 

"You seem distracted. I wondered what you were thinking about." She replied lightly. "If you don't mind." She mumbled quietly. 

"I do not mind, ma chère." He answered calmly. "I was...listening to music." He answered. 

She frowned in confusion. "...what, you have an iPod?" she asked, disbelieving. 

He chuckled quietly. "If I'm right about something, ma chère," he answered, "then you will understand soon enough." 

She frowned, lost. "So...no iPod?" she asked. 

"No, Christine. No iPod." He agreed. She could hear the restrained laughter in his voice and pouted, feeling like a child. "Soon, ma chère." He told her soothingly, "I just have to finish some things first." 

She wondered exactly what those things were, but understood instinctively that he would evade the question if she asked. 

She stubbed her toe on something and paused, causing his hands to shift beneath her fingers. She shivered slightly at the sensation, but he stiffened. "What happened to your fingers?" he demanded, sounding furious. 

She wriggled them experimentally. "Oh, those are blisters." She answered, realising what he meant. "From the buttons and sliders on the lighting desk. I've never done that much work on a desk all at once. I'm sure they'll callus eventually." She shrugged. 

His fingertips ran over hers, and the anger seemed to leave the air. "You should've taken the time to rest when they started to hurt." He told her pointedly. 

She rolled her eyes. "As if I had time to do that. Lighting rehearsal tomorrow, remember?" she reminded him, matching his tone. 

"Point." He agreed flatly. He resumed his proper hold again, continuing to lead her through a completely new path. 

His hand slipped from hers and she waited patiently, until she saw lights come up beyond a pair of gilded ebony doors. She blinked in surprise and slipped inside, closing the door behind her. The silhouette was already at the piano, tinkering across the keys with now-familiar scales. She hummed along absent-mindedly as she crossed to the red-velvet couch and sat down. She kicked her trainers off and wriggled her toes in their holey socks as she shifted. 

Instead of something calming or soothing, he just launched straight into her lullaby. She was asleep within moments. 

The Phantom smiled warmly at dear Christine as he pushed down the slider and the lights faded out. She was sleeping. Wordlessly singing her lullaby to keep her asleep, he lifted her into the familiar bridal-hold and began to carry her through the hallways to the Carlotta Suite. 

Her fingers entwined themselves with his cravat again and his resulting amusement gave way to annoyance and concern – why had she worked herself that hard? He had his own calluses from weeks upon weeks playing the organ with little breaks, but he was a musician and it was a sign of devotion. To have her so marked for a job she hardly enjoyed doing...it screamed unfairness to him. What had she been working so hard on, anyway? It was only the lighting rehearsal tomorrow. 

She mumbled something unintelligible in her sleep and buried her head closer into his chest. He smiled gently, frazzled conscience forgotten. He slid the mirror aside effortlessly and somehow managed to manoeuvre the bed sheets down without letting go of his dear Christine. When she was tucked under properly, he swept aside a lock of her hair tenderly and turned to leave, glancing over his shoulder before he slid the mirror closed. 

The music running through his head was desperate to be recorded, and he hurried soundlessly to his lair. The plan had come to him after a realization two nights ago. Well, more of a confirmation of a predetermined idea than a realization. He was sure his dear Christine had been asleep already, and was playing the music he could hear in his mind, just the musical accompaniment. He'd began what seemed to be the stanzas, when he heard his dear Christine humming along, perfectly in key, to the vocal accompaniment...the one he had not played yet. 

He had been right then, he mused as he sat down at the organ, the music _did_ sing to his dear Christine, sing at least. He had spent the next day listening to the music as he worked on his mask, hearing what it was telling him, how it taught him to open Christine's mind. Everything was in motion, and there was just to finish it, now. 

... 

Catherine was nervous. If it hadn't been for Greg's expectant expression, she probably wouldn't have been able to eat. This was the first time actual professionals would sit and judge her work – what if it wasn't good enough? She twisted her abused fingers together as she followed Greg reluctantly to the auditorium 

It certainly wasn't amazing work, and nothing worthy of the Populaire. The Phantom (or, rather, the Ghost) had made a giant mistake with choosing her as a permanent LT/SAd. They were going to see how terribly amateur and untalented she was! They'd be desperate for someone new to take over. Then they would be driven insane by the Opera Ghost for trying to replace her, and everything would end horribly and it would be all her fault! 

' _Calm down, Christine_.' Her mother's stern voice commanded in her memory, ' _There is a never a time to appear nervous, least of all when you are at your most nervous! Smile, for Christ's sake, and act confident!_ ' Catherine took a deep breath and tried to compose herself – it was perhaps the only good advice her mother had ever given her, but it had served her well through the years. Making sure she appeared confident, but not over-confident, she strolled onto the stage. Charlotte Giordani was glaring at her with full-blown diva bravado, but that was easy enough to ignore. 

Ray Giles and was smiling at her expectantly. Mister Lee gave her an almost sneering grin. "All ready to go, Miss Night?" he challenged. 

She made her smile friendly, her eyes open. "Of course. It's actually, _de_ Night, sir." She corrected gently. A twitch of nervousness sparked in her gut. "I would just like to remind you, Mister Lee, that this is...a first draft, of sorts. Feel free to take notes about what needs to be changed, or added. Of course, the Follow Spot Technicians aren't here today, so there will be noticeable improvement on seeing character's faces and drawing focus, things like that." She explained, her tone business-like. 

Mister Lee looked taken aback. "You mean to tell me, Miss de Night, that you have already done the lights as they run for the show?" 

She smiled pleasantly. "Of course." 

Mister Lee stared at Ray in confused desperation, who looked a touch embarrassed. He cleared his throat. "There seems to have been some confusion, Catherine." He explained, "Today's rehearsal was for you to create lighting states, the following few rehearsals for you to correct problem areas and adjust levels. Have you already done those things?" he asked. 

Catherine felt like crying, but she kept that away from her demeanour. "Yes, there seems to have been some misunderstanding. I have done those things, as best as I could without a set or cast." She answered. 

Mister Lee cried in delight. "Excellent! Then, we can run the show as normal?" he asked. 

"By all means, go ahead." She explained cordially. 

He left to inform the cast, and Ray stepped closer. "Catherine...you realise you were only supposed to hang, patch and angle lights, don't you?" he asked. 

She glared at him, letting her frustration show. "You told me I had to 'have the lights done' for 'a lighting rehearsal' on Sunday!" she hissed at him. 

"Dear God, Catherine!" he replied, shocked. "Nobody can be expected to complete a whole show of lights in _one week_!" 

She scowled at him. "Well, I did. In _four days_." She corrected, feeling abused. 

"I don't know what to say, Catherine." He told her helplessly, "I never expected this from you. I would never expect this from _any_ Technician." He added at her sharp look. "I can see the potential the Ghost glimpsed in you now." 

"Miss de Nights, we are ready to run the show when you are!" Mister Lee announced excitedly. 

She smiled at him warmly. "I'll be about fifteen minutes, sir. Why don't you have your actors run through a warm up?" she suggested, before turning on her heal and disappearing into the back lobby of the theatre and up the gazillion stairs to the bio-box. Once inside, she kicked a loose box and screamed in frustration – all that stress and work and damn blistered fingers for absolutely bloody _nothing_! 

Burying her anger, she turned the lights on and started warming them. She was going to hit somebody, she really was! 

... 

Greg Mabry, Sound Assistant Extraordinaire, swept through the corridors of the Populaire Theatre's backstage labyrinth with the ease of a maze's true master. There was only one other who knew the theatre better than he, and that monster would never rise up to challenge his claim! Greg Mabry, Master of the Labyrinth, charged through his kingdom with flawless ease, on his way to the fair maiden's chambers! 

Cath had been incredibly upset yesterday. Imagine, having to toil away at an impossible task, only to learn that you were doing the wrong one! It showed the brilliant dedication to her work, her passion and drive – all things he could nurture and let flourish in their relationship! How she dedicate the same energy and fervour into _them_ , rather than the silly lights! Any so-and-so could turn a light on, but it took real touch and attention to control sound. 

Sound, like an unruly dragon, took precision and talent to muster. To know its specific sound levels and frequencies, to balance treble and bass, to blend music and sound effects and dialogue – it took a brave and gifted man to control. Greg Mabry, Keeper of the Sound, knocked on the fair maiden's door to the tune of God Save The Queen. 

There was silence within, and the Great Greg Mabry – no, the Magnificent Greg Mabry felt his sense of adventure rising. A mystery, perhaps? Or, was the Fair Maiden simply too distraught to come to the door? That must be it! She would fall weeping into his arms, knowing that he was the true hero, and the only one who could comfort her in the way she wanted, no – needed! 

Luckily he had been trained in the ancient practice of lock-manipulation! Greg Mabry, Knower of Many Things, slid the old metal hairpin into the lock and worked his magic. The door opened with a quiet snick. He glanced inside and glanced at the almost complete darkness. Across the room on the bedside table, a stubby candle was burning at the end of its wick. 

Drawing his trust penknife, Excalibur, Greg Mabry, Knife-Fighter, crossed the room to pick up the sneering envelope and took out the missive. 

' _Dear Mister Mabry_ ,' it declared, 

' _Miss de Night will not be attending work today. She is under the care of a more qualified gentleman than your poor excuse of self. I must warn you, sir: learn your place. You are unworthy of a lady such as herself. Learn your place, sir, and I will not have to teach it to you. Do not fear for Catherine. She is under better care than you could ever dream of providing._

_I remain, sir, your obedient servant:_

_O.G._ ' 

Greg swallowed: this couldn't be good. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 13: Forced Revelations**

* * *

Greg knew _something_ , that much Catherine was sure of. It was Tuesday, and he was watching her – face full of concern, but eyes full of suspicion. Nobody but him had mentioned yesterday's absence. 

Greg was trying his hardest to spend absolutely all his time with her. He was still chatty, but nowhere near his usual level. He kept watching her, suspicious and expectant. It had clicked instantly: he knew she'd spent the day before with the Phantom. 

"What are you smiling about?" Greg demanded. He had obviously tried for light, but only ended up sounding suspicious and over-eager. 

"Just stuff." She dismissed. 

"I went to your room yesterday." He blurted. He had obviously grown tired of dropping hints, deciding to run at his theory head-on. 

"Hm?" she asked, distracted. 

" _You_ weren't there." He continued, "But a _note_ was." 

She was genuinely confused at that. "A note? What did it say?" 

"It was from the Opera Ghost." He answered angrily, "He told me that he had you and threatened me." 

Catherine arched an eyebrow. "He threatened you?" 

Greg stared at her a long time, and then exploded: "You're not denying it!" 

She blinked at him. "What was it that I was supposed to be denying again?" she asked, confused. Had she missed something key in his sentence? 

He stared pacing back and forth with pent up fury. "That the ghost kidnapped you! That he took advantage of you!" 

"He _didn't_ take advantage of me." She replied, a small smile settling across her lips. "He was a perfect gentleman." She gave him a pointed look. "Which is more than I can say for you." 

"Cath, I'm not a monster! I'm not a sick, deformed, demented, insane, sociopathic _beast_ who tyrants over a theatre and drives people insane!" he yelled. 

She waited in silence until his breath returned to normal, the tension in the air growing steadily as the silence wore on. "Are you done?" she asked calmly. He nodded. "Good. Now shut up and let me talk." She gathered her thoughts. "First of all, for what has to be the two hundredth time: don't call me Cath." He opened his mouth to protest, but she glared him down. "Secondly, where the _hell_ do you get off on viciously insulting someone you don't even _know_?!" 

"I've met him before!" Greg replied, defensively. 

"But you clearly don't _know_ him." She countered. "He's nothing like you described. He's a lonely, gentle _man_ who only wants to help the Populaire. I'm not saying he doesn't take it too far sometimes because, yeah, dropping lighting bars is no laughing matter." 

"What about Jack?" he demanded, interrupting. 

"I can't make judgement on that. I wasn't here then and everyone's too biased to get an impartial account." She answered calmly. "I'm not justifying it, but I can't condemn him for it either!" 

He was staring at her, horrified realization dawning on his face. "You're in love with him!" 

She blinked at him. Was she...? She flushed and turned away. "That's none of your business." 

"Christ! Catherine, you _are_! Are you bloody _insane_?!" he cried. 

She whirled on him, furious. How _dare_ he? "Why would that be insane?" she demanded defensively. "Why the hell would I have to be ashamed of my feelings? Why do I have to be crazy to care about him?" 

"Catherine, have you ever _seen_ him?" he asked. "I have! It makes me feel sick to think about anyone with him, let alone _you_." 

She scowled at him. "You're a shallow, conceited asshole, Greg Mabry." She told him darkly. "Not that it means anything to you, but looks aren't everything." 

"If you two are _quite_ done," Ray's voice erupted from the doorway. Catherine jerked in surprise, while Greg let out an unmanly scream and whirled around to face the Theatre Manager, who continued angrily: "We have a rehearsal in an hour and you haven't fixed the amps yet, Mister Mabry." Greg nodded and stomped out. Ray fixed Catherine with a curious and disapproving expression, but didn't comment. "Why don't you grab an early lunch, Miss de Night?" he suggested. 

She nodded and left the bio-box. She heard Greg's angry mutterings drifting up the stairs and headed with relief into the secret passageway. She closed her eyes and leaned against the wall just inside the door, taking a number of calming breaths. When she opened her eyes, there was a familiar silhouette standing just outside of the circle of light from the open entrance. She closed the wall with a jerking movement and stared where he had been in the complete darkness. "How much of that did you hear?" she asked. 

When the Phantom spoke, his voice was filled with awe and conflict. "I've been listening to you all day." He answered. 

Catherine blushed and covered her face with her hands. "Oh." All of it, then. Neither of them moved for a long time, the tension so thick you could try and stick a knife in it, but it wouldn't give. Eventually, she lowered her hands. "Are you mad at me?" 

He seemed genuinely surprised. "Why would I be angry?" he asked, confused. 

"You...haven't said anything." She answered awkwardly. 

"Ma chère, I'm not entirely sure what I'm supposed to say." He replied. "I have never..." He paused, and she guessed her was reconsidering his words, choosing how much to reveal. "This has never happened to me, before." That comment made her heart ache in sympathy. "Are you... do you really..." 

"Phantom, where are you?" she whispered. 

"I am here, Christine." He whispered, placing one of her hands on his face. 

She held on tight, moving her other hand to the back of his head, pulling his head down closer as she arched up onto the balls of her feet. She kissed his forehead, wondering curiously at the dual sensations of smoothness and unexplained texture. He didn't seem to be breathing, and she whispered: "I think... that is, I'm pretty sure...I love you." 

There was a sob, a rush of air, and suddenly Catherine knew she was alone in the passageway. She repressed the stab of hurt at not having the sentiment returned, but replaced it with disappointment. So, she felt more for him than he did for her – it wasn't unexpected. Besides, that song – the first she had ever heard... 

There was someone else, some other girl. Whether she was still here, or had long since left, she obviously meant more to the Phantom than Catherine ever could. The first girl to ever hear his music, who had 'heard as the outcast hears' had come before her, and he had obviously loved her, probably still did. 

Catherine didn't want to come between them. She could see the type of girl the Phantom of the Opera would fall for: flawlessly beautiful, infinitely kind, and with an enchanting voice to match his. Despite what Greg believed, he deserved nothing less, after all. 

She shrugged away her disappointment: it wouldn't be the first time she'd had unrequited feelings for someone. Perhaps she hadn't felt this strongly for anyone else, but there was definitely history to help her be able to deal with it. 

A small sad smile drifted over her face – she hadn't heard from Raoul in a while, actually. Perhaps she should write him a letter. 

... 

Christine loved him. His mind was spinning out of control as tears slid out of his left eye. She loved him – _she_ loved _him_. Somehow, he just couldn't wrap his mind around the concept. It was true that she was the only woman he could... the only one who had heard his music, and the only person he had met with the potential to hear _the_ music. She was the only other woman other than Antoinette to have shown him any kindness. The only woman who sought his company, and she did so willingly and eagerly...because she loved him. 

He found himself in his lair, sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the white porcelain mask on the bed-side table, propped up against the candelabrum. The Fool had made some good points, as much as he loathed thinking that. 

He was a monster, as the Fool had enthusiastically pointed out, and just because his dear Christine had not seen that, did not mean that he wasn't. His 'demented, insane, sociopathic' side, as the Fool had put it, was part of himself he didn't know how to function without. He ghosted over the right side of his face, frowning – he could hide the 'deformed' part, but everything else had been true as well. 

But Christine had dismissed everything the Fool had thrown at her. If she loved him, did that mean she had looked past everything? Or that she couldn't see it? 

He heard his name being called and launched to his feet in surprise – where had Antoinette come from? He slipped into the main cavern, making sure to avoid the light of her electric torch. "Antoinette. To what do I owe this visit?" he demanded icily. 

The woman arched an eyebrow. "Your salary, _monsieur_." She answered curtly. 

He expected her to leave, but she didn't leave and he frowned. "Was there something else, madam?" he asked curtly. 

"Young Catherine de Night, monsieur." She said quietly. "What are your intentions?" she demanded. 

It was so similar to their first conversation about his dear Christine, and his intentions had changed so much. But, still: "That, madam, is not your business." He informed her forcefully. 

She spoke his name harshly. "I'm worried! Your note to Mister Mabry caused a lot of concern." She told him. 

The Phantom frowned in disapproval. "The Fool showed you the note?" he asked. 

"No, he gave it to Giles and Finn! They summoned me to the office, questioned me whether it was possible for you to have kidnapped her." She answered. 

"And you told them?" he asked. 

"What I know." She answered angrily, "That I wasn't aware of a secret passageway into the Carlotta Suite, but that you have too many for me to know them all." She took a moment to study him. "I told them that you very likely _could_ have the capacity to take an unwilling girl from her own room." 

"She was not unwilling." He answered, dark anger simmering below the surface of his words. Why could no one understand that? Why would no one believe that someone _wanted_ his company? 

"Somehow I knew that." Antoinette remarked calmly. "But you understand, don't you? You have already shown favour to Miss de Night, and if they begin to suspect something going on between the two of you, they could—" 

He scowled. "She has already proven herself as a worthy employee." He interrupted pointedly. 

"The Populaire is no longer inclined to bend to your will, _monsieur_!" She told him furiously. "You destroyed that when you attacked Polanyi!" she added. "Surely you must have noticed?" 

The Phantom frowned and glared at her. "I am no fool, madam. I have noticed." He told her curtly. 

"Then understand this: if Finn believes you to be showing Miss de Night too much favour, he will be looking for a reason to dismiss her, purely to spite you." She explained. She took him in for a moment, then continued: "I beg of you, for Miss de Night's sake, leave her be!" 

He frowned, and turned away. "That is one thing I cannot do." 

" _Monsieur_ , _please_!" she cried. 

"Antoinette, do not ask me to do that!" he yelled furiously. It echoed back at him from every corner of his lair and the older woman flinched – she was very rarely inflicted with the full power of the Ghost's voice. 

Trembling, she studied him for a moment, before realisation dawned on her face. She spoke his name, softly, almost awed, "...you love her." 

He crossed to the organ and the sheets of music nearly finished on the stand. "That, also, is none of your business." 

"Does she...?" 

"She has told me does." He said, chest aching as he said it: she had said it, and he had left her alone in the hallway. Who knew what she was thinking now? "She doesn't like lying, and I doubt she would lie about something like this." 

"Oh, my dear boy..." She stepped closer and placed a hand on his shoulder. "I am so happy for you." 

He caught sight of a lumpy piece of porcelain alongside the notes: the remainder of a failed mask. He frowned, "She has not seen me." He told her painfully. "She has not seen me, but she believes she loves me." His dear Christine's voice travelled back to him from memory: ' _You know the crucial part of 'believe' is the word 'lie', don't you_?' 

"Give her time, my boy." She whispered gently. "She will learn to look past it." A tense silence settled between them, and Antoinette removed her hand from his shoulder. "I will leave you to think, my dear. I am so happy you have found someone." She added as a parting note. 

The Phantom returned to the bed-cavern and picked up the mask, deep in thought. His dear Christine thought she loved him, but he knew that hinged on her continual impression of him. He knew if she saw him, or rather, saw his face, that it would be a quick descent. He could not bear that, not when _finally_ , she was on the verge of being his. He was risking too much to take that chance. 

He ghosted a hand over the right side of his face once more. He had no choice but to hide it. He settled the cold porcelain onto his face for the very first time. It fit perfectly, forming to his features so well that there was no need for straps or strings. It was perfect. 

Maybe one day she would see him, and she would not turn away. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 14: Music of the Night**

* * *

Catherine hadn't seen the Phantom since her confession. That had been five days ago now. She still heard him of course: 2:27am without fail, a violin behind the glass of her mirror, playing 'her song' and the lullaby. But he was clearly avoiding her. 

She was lonely. Greg was all but completely ignoring her because of their fight and its revelation. In the cafeteria, the dancers were whispering behind their hands and giving her suspicious looks. But, seriously, did _everyone_ know? 

Being ostracised from everyone had pushed her to write that letter to Raoul, and today she was going to check her POBOX to see if she had gotten a reply. It felt weird – she hadn't been out of the theatre since she'd thought she was fired, she realised with surprise. 

She went close to twilight – her favourite time of day. That _je ne sais quoi_ of the daytime turning into the night, how the lights twinkled and everything was bathed in a different glow. The time that her childhood stories told her anything could happen. 

The walk took some time, and by the time she got there, it had transitioned into a beautiful night, a few stars still visible beyond the lights of the city. She opened her post-box, binning the junk mail, ignoring the bank statements, re-posting a letter put in her box by accident and finally crying in delight at the familiar, neat script of Raoul de Chagny, her oldest and dearest friend. 

It was weirdly bulky in one place, but she ignored that and put it lovingly in the breast-pocket of her coat. 

She waited until she was shut in her suite and sat at her vanity table before tearing the letter open. A yellow-gold band with an in-laid square diamond fell out first and she gaped. That was... but she hadn't seen that since... it had... 

She yanked the letter out quickly, feverishly scanning the words in desperation to find some explanation for the ring's arrival. 

_Dearest Little Lotte,_ __

_I had almost started to believe you had forgotten me! After all, it has been almost two years since we last saw each other. We did promise we'd keep in contact, but I can understand (and hope you will do the same for me) that life sometimes spins out of control and we find ourselves not doing something we want and promised to do._ __

_The timing seems perfect, as you will see shortly. You have no doubt found the ring enclosed with the letter. If you do not recognise it (shame on you!) let me remind you: your father's promise ring from your mother. Although the sentiment had long since been betrayed, your father always held that ring dear. If memory serves, he always said he would give you the ring so you could drop your intended a hint when needed. However tempted I was to keep it (you promised it to me when you were only eight years old, after all!), your father would've always wanted you to have it._ __

_Why the timing is perfect, Lotte, I will explain now. You remember when your father first got sick, he spent a lot of time at the Chagny chateaux? Well, Philippe decided earlier this year that we were going to open the chateaux for public view, and ordered it to be cleaned._ __

_Just last Tuesday, I was surveying the progress when from between the floorboards of the upstairs study your father's promise ring slipped between the cracks and hit me on the head. Imagine my shock three days later when I return home and find your letter waiting for me! Doesn't the timing just seem eerie? Or perhaps your old man is giving us a hint?_ __

Catherine bit her lip before she continued reading. Yes, the timing _was_ eerie, but for another reason that Raoul didn't know about. Tuesday had been the day she'd realised she was in love with the Phantom. She picked up the ring and glared at it, as if it could give her the answer. With a sigh, she slipped it onto her right thumb for safe-keeping. She turned her attention back to the letter, absently turning the ring around on her thumb. 

_I do have to confess, your mother told me many months ago about you being involved in technical work. I have to admit I was surprised – last I heard on the matter you completely detested technical work and would never do it again if you had the choice. I assume your opinion has changed, dear Lotte, for it pains me to think of you working at something that does not make you happy._

_You sound lonely, Lotte. You mentioned absolutely nothing of people except to complain about that Greg Mabry. By the way, you can tell him that if he wants to compete for your heart, will have to have a duel with a fourteen-time fencing champion Vicomte for the honour. You'll laugh at that, no doubt._

In fact, she was, laughing at loud in an empty room to a written sentiment. Well, it was completely ridiculous – Greg in the fencing costume and wondering what the hell to do with the foil while Raoul fluidly practiced lunges and parries in the background. She blocked the image out of her mind and returned her attention to the letter. 

_In all serious, Little Lotte, if he does give you any more problems, I will hire a tough, burly man to threaten him and scare him into acting more gentleman-like._

_But you mentioned no other friends and, knowing you like I do, this means that you have no other friends. I'm always a letter or a phone call away, and as long as you call be nine am and midnight I will be perfectly amiable in conversation. _

_As for myself, the usual aristocratic tripe continues: dances, dinners and hunting parties. I know you always hunting for sport, Lotte, and how I wish I could get out of them. Philippe says my dislike of it is unmanly, as is my long hair. (Yes, Lotte, I've kept it long. Philippe is furious!) Sometimes I wish I could just do what you did: take up a false name, escape into the real world and hide in the shadows of a theatre. Not that the hiding-in-the-theatre part would work – we both know how good my acting skills are, and Viktor still sets the clock on my DVD-player. Perhaps I could be a silent partner? A silent, backstage partner who really just pays for everything._

_I am embarrassed to tell you Lotte, that I finally caved in to Mémé's suggestions and am courting Anais duBlanc. She's a bore, and completely uninterested in me, but understands how prodigious the match will be._

_Your mother and Richard are due to attend Philippe's banquet next weekend. She will be delighted to learn that we are in contact again, and will no doubt be trying to convince me to begin a courtship with you. I shall tell her that you said I was a nonsensical fool and that you would never give me your hand, shall I?_

Catherine barked a laugh at that: the usual dismissal, then? 

_I would love to continue blathering on, Little Lotte, but I have a friendly fencing competition in an hour and want to have this letter to you by tomorrow. I'll sign off for now. Keep in contact!_

_Your beloved friend,_

_Raoul de Chagny._

... 

The Phantom scowled as he stood by the vanity table and read the letter from...this _Fop_! This _Vicomte de Chagny_! He read up until the part where the Fop declared he couldn't work a simple piece of technology before he crumpled up the letter and swept furiously through the mirror. 

How _dare_ that insolent little aristocrat think he had claim to _his_ Christine? He had not even bothered to contact her for two years! He would not lose her to some damnable, long-haired idiot! 

The music was ready and waiting: tonight was the night. He lifted his violin and began playing the instrumental to the pivotal song of the evening. Although it was only thirty minutes past midnight, his Christine began to stir as soon as the first note had sounded. She had woken after a few bars and frowned as she glanced at the time. 

" _Christine_..." he whispered beside her ear. She shivered and looked towards the mirror, eyes wide with expectation. " _Christine_..." he repeated, trying to make his voice as alluring as possible. With another shiver, she slid out of her bed and pulled her a sheer white dressing gown over her silken white nightgown. She looked a heavenly angel, glowing white with hair falling naturally around her face and behind her shoulders. " _Christine._ " He whispered again, awed at how eagerly she came to him. 

Pushing a trick-stone on the wall, the closest torch ignited slowly. His Christine's increasingly awe-filled expression morphed into his own masked one as the polarity of the mirror reversed. "Phantom?" she asked, awed, from beyond the mirror. The hydraulics of the mirror hissed as she leaned on the glass, and her fingers slipped between the gap as she pushed it open, staring at him unwaveringly. 

"Come with me, Christine." He requested gently, wishing he didn't need the violin so her could offer her his hand. She nodded obediently and stepped forward. He walked backwards, keeping eye contact with his Christine as he led her to his lair. 

He never stopped playing – if things were to work the way he intended, her mind needed to be saturated with the notes, consumed with the music. He let the automated track take the gondola through the waterways, gliding them through the lake to the entrance of his home and pulling gently to a stop on the bank. Making sure she saw him do it, he pressed the play button on a sound-system and lowered the violin into its case. 

The same tune continued, and Christine's breath was heaving, eyes completely entranced upon his. He looked at her, took her awe-filled face in, opened his mouth and began to sing: 

" _Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation_..." 

... 

Roused by familiar violin music, Catherine frowned at the darkness behind her eyelids. It couldn't _possibly_ be half-two yet, could it? Checking her phone, she confirmed that, no, it wasn't and wondered what was going on. 

" _Christine_..." a familiar whisper came beside her ear. It sent a shiver of excitement down her spine and she looked at the mirror where she knew he was. " _Christine..._ " he repeated. _Oh_ , she thought helplessly. The voice wrapped around her heart, tugging it closer to the mirror. She simply _had_ to stand up, having subconscious thought enough to grab her dressing gown as she made her way inevitably to the glass of the mirror. The voice was awed as it whispered one last time: " _Christine_." 

As she reached her reflection, it began to disappear. Behind the glass, a man in an impeccable nineteenth-century suit and a white half-mask stood, looking straight at her as he played the violin with the ease of a lifetime of performance. It could only be..."Phantom?" She pressed her hand to the glass, and there was a mechanical hissing as it opened that tiny gap. She pushed it aside, desperate to see him. 

She swore her heart stopped as their gaze met for the first time. He...was...magnificent. One silver eye and one green eye watched her intensely. A pale, handsome face only broken by the white of what had to be porcelain watched her, with dark brown almost black hair slicked back, his expression drawing her in deeper. She loved him. 

"Come with me, Christine." He bid, his voice rich and alluring. She could only nod and step towards him. But he was still the same distance away, if anything going further. She continued to walk closer to him, lost in that beautifully mismatched gaze and drowning in the notes of the violin. 

Then, there was only the Phantom and his music. Absolutely nothing else mattered. Then, he was stepping away again, and they were in his home. She was aware of their surroundings, even as she couldn't look away from the man before her. The caverns of glittering, porous rock, alit by an uncounted number of candles, studded by beautiful furniture – the centrepiece a magnificent organ. She was rocking ever so slightly from side to side. She almost panicked – when the hell had she gotten on a boat? 

He walked backwards again, drifting to what she realised was a modern sound-system and hit a play button. Even though the Phantom stopped playing the violin, she could still hear the same music – _oh_ , she thought, _he has a recording then_. The violin seemed richer, now accompanied by a proper orchestra, mostly strings though. Had he played every instrument to get the effect? 

He seemed to focus on her once more, his expression so intense. She couldn't look away, even if she had wanted to. When he began to sing, she was sure her heart had stopped again, only to beat with every note and syllable. It was almost too much, but she was hooked – she was his. 

" _Night time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their defences._ " Then he was offering her a hand, and she was rising to her feet and taking it. The smooth, warm leather turned the skin of her arm to gooseflesh as a spark ignited from the point of contact and went to settle in her core. The intoxicating scent of chocolate surrounded her as she drunk the sight of him and the sound his voice in as if it was salvation. 

The music continued, and he looked at her, awed. His eyes never left hers as he led her slowly from the boat. " _Slowly, gently: night unfurls its splendour. Grasp it, sense it,_ " he curled his fingers in a gesture of come-hither, but he was still leading her with his other hand and she couldn't help but to follow. " _Tremulous and tender_." It was...all...too...much... She moved her head, tearing her eyes from his. But not for long. His gloved fingers gently manoeuvred her face back to face him and she was caught once again in his molten eyes. " _Turn your face away, from the garish light of day, turn your thoughts away from cold unfeeling light..._ " He pulled away, the magnetic gaze easing off its pull. " _And listen to the Music of the Night_." 

He turned as he sung again, flying up the stairs fluidly and whirling to face her once at the top, beside his organ. " _Close your eyes and surrender to your darkest dreams,_ " he looked around his lair, trying to convey something she didn't understand. " _Purge your thoughts of the life you knew before._ " He stepped closer to her. " _Close your eyes_ ," he sung and this time she had to. " _Let your spirit start...to soar_..." As his voice continued, it shot from her ears and her skin to shoot fire through her veins. When it stopped, she threw her eyes open, desperate to hear him sing again. " _And you'll live,_ " he sung, stepping closer to her once more, " _as you've never lived, before._ " 

He offered her a hand again and, helpless, she stepped closer until her hand touched the smooth leather once more. She couldn't focus on anything, because the Phantom was singing again, at an enticing whisper as he led her closer to his organ. " _Softly, deftly, music shall caress you._ " He stopped leading her then, but drew her closer until their faces were so, so close. " _Hear it, feel it secretly possess you_." They were turning then, and too soon he was stepping away. " _Open up your mind, let your fantasies unwind,"_ He gestured around them, " _in this darkness that you know_ ," he looked back at her then, and she was drawn into his gaze. "Y _ou cannot fight. The darkness of the Music of the Night_." 

He started walking sideways then, putting the organ and candelabra in between them. " _Let your mind start a journey through a strange new world, leave all thought of the life you knew before."_ And then he was coming back to her. " _Let your soul take you where you long to be!_ " The raw power in his voice made her shiver with excitement, making the softness of his next lines all the more gripping. He stepped closer, and her skin thrummed at the proximity. " _Only then can you belong_ ," his gloved hands cupped her face and she decided that she hated those gloves. " _to me._ " 

The music had stopped, and there was just the two of them and those stupid few inches of empty space between them. She wanted to close the distance, but he was turning her gently, a gentle swell of music starting up again. 

" _Floating_ ," he sung gently, his gloved hands drifting over her covered torso, leaving burning trails of electrified skin in his wake, " _falling,_ " One his hands drifted down her torso, sinking somehow innocently lower, " _sweet intoxication._ " He took her hand and began to lift it, placing it on the bare skin of the left side of his face. " _Touch me, trust me._ " Fire was shooting down her arm, filling her with warmth and electricity. Then she was turning, desperate to face him, to see the connection she could only feel. But he was removing her hand and holding it in his own. " _Savour each sensation_." 

Now, he was moving away again, and she allowed herself to be led, heart racing and blood thrumming from everything the Phantom was doing to her. " _Let the dream begin_!" he commanded, gesturing out at his lair. Was this the dream? He turned to fix her with a knowing gaze, " _Let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write..._ " And now they were near somewhere else, another alcove shadowed by a thick red curtain with golden tassels. He gave her an expectant smile, and pulled her around to face it. " _The power of the Music of the Night._ " 

The music swelled then, and suddenly nothing made sense. She was facing an amp, and yes, there were bars dropping and lowering to indicate something was being fed in. But there was no output...nothing was plugged in as a speaker! Her knees buckled, but the Phantom caught her and held her steady against his chest. The music continued to swell, and she listened, desperate for some sort of explanation. The music seemed to be coming from the very air itself, the miniscule particles creating the sound themselves to reflect the rise and fall of the tension. 

It softened gently, and the Phantom turned her to face him. He looked at her, desperate and pleading. " _You alone can make my song take flight._ " He moved closer, forehead and mask leaning against her feverish skin. " _Help me make the Music of the,_ " He stroked her cheek gently. " _Night..._ " 

As his sung note, and the last of the invisible music drifted out, she let herself relax in his arms. He shifted, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead. She shivered and gasped, throwing her eyes open. He was giving her a soft, gentle smile and it was more beautiful than she could have ever imagined. The music in the air shifted, less important – like the soundtrack to a movie. 

"Do you hear it now, Christine?" he asked at a whispered. 

She nodded, awed at the realisation that _this_ was what he had meant the first night at the piano. _'We are making this._ ', ' _Did it sing to you_?'; both statements that had confused her so much the first night, but now made sense in the light of revelation. The Phantom had always heard the music, and now he had shared it with her. 

Her father's ring on her finger slipped slightly and she gasped as a memory returned, feeling like she wasn't getting enough air. He had always said... She stared at the Phantom, eyes going wide as she heard blood rushing through her ears. "Angel of Music..." she whispered, before promptly passing out. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 15: Angel of Music**

* * *

What she had come to think of as her lullaby was playing in the air as she woke up, but suddenly she saw it with a new dimension. The rise and fall, the pattern of the notes, they seemed to recurringly spell out three pivotal words: _Angel of Music_. How had she not noticed that before? She sat up, the red silk sheets of the swan bed sliding off as she moved. She looked around, hoping to see the Phantom sitting by her bedside. But he wasn't, and she clambered out of the bed to follow a path of different music to where the Phantom was crouching at the banks of the lake, picking up and trickling away handfuls of water. 

She crossed to him, and saw him tense in awareness as his music started to twist and mix with hers in a beautiful harmony. He turned to face her slowly, and just stared. He had taken off the suit-jacket, cravat and waistcoat, leaving behind a pair of black slacks and a gaping white shirt. She wondered how awful she must look. "Hi." She greeted, feeling very awkward. 

" _Christine...Christine...Christine..._ " he sung softly, his voice soothing. Still, she shivered in delight and a smile broke out on her face. He echoed this with one of his own and stood fluidly to a rise in music. "You are well, I hope." 

"I'm better than ever." She told him truthfully, stepping closer. 

He wrapped his arms around her and drew her deeper into his embrace, the music somehow swelling and softening at the same time. "You should go back to sleep, ma chère." He told her gently. 

"I'm too excited to sleep." She told him eagerly. "I have to tell you about something." She said, pulling back to look at him. 

He arched an eyebrow, "What could that be?" he asked curiously. 

She pulled back and held his bicep, pulling him towards the bed cavern. He resisted slightly, and she rolled her eyes. "I'm not going to assault you, Angel, I just need to tell you something." She informed him. 

He chuckled ironically at something, but didn't elaborate. Instead, he asked: "Angel?" 

"That's part of what I need to tell you." She said impatiently. When they finally reached the cavern, she sat him on a chair and sat on the wing of the bed. "Do you remember what I called you before I passed out?" she asked eagerly. 

He frowned. "You said: 'Angel of Music'." He told her. 

"I called _you_ 'Angel of Music'." She corrected joyously. 

"Why on earth would you do that?" he asked, genuinely confused. 

She leaned closer to him, excitement bubbling beneath the surface. "My father was Charles Daae." She began, wondering vaguely if he would recognise the name. 

He blinked, and then stared. "The violinist?" he questioned. A familiar tune drifted through the air and Catherine flinched. "Seventeen years ago." the Phantom mused. "The Mozart Scandal. A violinist played an unwritten accompaniment to the Fourteenth Piano Sonata. He was declared unfaithful to music and lost all credibility." 

She scowled at her feet. "He always insisted that what he played had always been part of the music...just not everyone could hear it." 

She shook off her thoughts. "Anyway, a long time ago my father used to tell me that I had inherited his 'soul of music'." She explained carefully, "A part of me that belonged to music, that didn't need knowledge of notes and scales and instruments. He told me that, one day, I'd be able to properly hear music – I used to think he meant in notes and keys, things like that. I didn't realise that he meant _this_." She waved a hand in the air between them, trying to convey the music that was thrumming quietly in the air. 

The Phantom tilted his head, expression curious. 

"But there was something else." She added, whispering. She looked at his face and wondered at all those stories. "My father told me..." she took a deep breath, "He told me that one day, there would be someone to release my 'soul of music'." She whispered. "He said...he told me..." she frowned, trying to find a way to phrase her statement without sounding foolish. "He said that the person to show me the music would...they would be my Angel of Music." She whispered, half-hoping he couldn't hear her. 

He sighed and got to his, feet, crossing the room to a grungy-framed mirror. He ran his fingers along the frame and she caught the reflection of his pained and thoughtful expression. "I'm no angel, ma chère." He said eventually. 

"I'm not a little kid any more." She retorted. "Until this morning, I didn't think my father's story was possible. I thought it was a nice sentiment, but I never believed in Angels. But it clicked: it's supposed to be a term of endearment, not an actual status." She explained. "I know you're not an angel, but if you wouldn't mind horribly, I would like to use that endearment from now on." 

He turned to look at her, wearing an unreadable expression. He crossed the room and held her face lightly in his hands. They were cold and somewhat damp from the water, but still managed to send a jolt of heat through her as the music jumped in strength. He studied her expression, before pressing a kiss against her forehead. "You may call me what you wish, ma chère, so long as you allow me the same favour." 

She smiled at him, and he smiled back slightly. "Good, then it's settled. You shall be my Angel of Music." 

She thought back to the many times she'd heard the story, on her father's knee or on the fur rug by the fireplace. There was more to the story than that, but she would never pursue the obligation, she thought, turning the ring on her thumb. The Phantom glanced at it and frowned slightly. She shook her head clear of thoughts and smiled at him. 

His eyebrow arched slightly. "Very well, mon ange." He said. "Come. As pleasant as this morning has been, those two fools who run my theatre will not tolerate you missing another day of work because of me." 

... 

"What the hell are you _grinning_ at?" Greg demanded, furious. Catherine could only giggle helplessly as she took a box off him and handed it to another technician. 

She'd spent the whole day listening to the various music-types of different people around the theatre. Ray and Dennis had some jaunty orchestral number, while the dancers all moved to some awful hip-hop beat. The chef in the kitchen had some 80's-glam-rock going on for him, while Joseph Burkett had some sinister, anticipatory music, mostly orchestral. But it was Greg's tune that had her in giggles. It was strongly reminiscent of the Baby Elephant Walk and matched his ridiculous swagger and attitude perfectly. She couldn't keep a straight face. 

She didn't know how the Phantom could take him seriously at all, with this tune following him around at all times. She realised with a wry grin that he probably didn't anyway, and passed another box onto the technician. 

Greg just fixed her with a glare, and the crew left the storage room. 

She checked her phone for the time. "Yay, knock-off time!" she exclaimed brightly. Some of the technicians gave her an amused smile, and she waved at them as she took off down the shadowy hallways back to her suite. 

She closed the door behind her and gave herself over to the laughter she had been trying to repress. Her laughter dissolved and she took a deep breath calmly. She glanced at her vanity table and all traces of mirth disappeared. What she instantly recognised as Raoul's letter was now in a crumpled ball on the polished surface. Who would do such a thing? A bar of organ notes told her _exactly_ who would and she scowled before smoothing out the letter, grateful that it wasn't completely damaged. 

Faint snatches of her lullaby seemed to come from around the mirror and she pushed on it impatiently, wondering if she could follow the music down to the Phantom's lair. 

... 

The Phantom was studying the lighting plans, old-fashioned pen and a red inkwell set on the table beside him, when he heard the snatches of his Christine's lullaby floating down the tunnels. Arching an eyebrow, he turned to the entrance to see the gondola bobbing merry-as-you-please. He yawned and frowned: he had been planning to sleep this afternoon, but his Christine obviously wanted to spend time with him. 

But he could deny her nothing, least of all now. Yawning one last time, he crossed to the gondola and let the automatic tracks take him there. He waited patiently at the boat for his Christine's arrival, and when she finally came around the corner he was half-asleep. He could only smile helplessly as the same awe from their first meeting covered her face for a moment, before she smiled at him, the traces of her annoyance fading from the music. 

"Good afternoon, Angel." She greeted. 

"I dare say, Christine, evening would be more accurate." He remarked matter-of-factly. He held his hand out to guide her into the gondola, but she hesitated. 

"Isn't there any other way to get to your home?" she asked curiously. 

He frowned as he remembered through his sleepy haze: his Christine didn't like boats or water. He frowned, "Not from here." He answered truthfully. "There is another way, but involves re-tracing almost all of your steps." 

She looked contemplative, but shrugged. "I'll brave the boat, then." She answered. "Can we go _back_ that way, though?" she asked. 

"Anything for you, mon ange." He answered tenderly, leading her into the boat. "Would you like me to sing for you?" 

She nodded, watching the side of the boat warily. She settled in the seat and looked up at him in the light of the lantern and started pushing them along with the pole. The music decided for him, and he began to sing his first song to her, tiredness getting in the way of any real emotion. He helped her out of the boat and stood near his desk. "What is that you would like to do, ma chère?" he asked her tenderly. 

She looked around, subdued. After a moment she sighed and shivered in the cold air. "What were you doing before I intruded?" she asked curtly. 

The Phantom arched an eyebrow, but ignored her tone. "I was looking over the latest set designs." He answered. 

"I haven't seen them yet." She remarked curiously, "Mind if I take a look?" she asked. 

"Of course." He said, leading her over to his desk very grateful that he had packed up his sketchbook already. 

She looked at them, and frowned. "Well, they're not going to work with the lighting designs at all." She remarked bitterly, folding her arms under her chest. "Don't the designers co-ordinate _at all_ in this theatre?" she asked tersely. 

"No, they don't." He replied tiredly. "That would solve a lot of problems that I otherwise wouldn't have to deal with." He muttered darkly. When he looked back up, his Christine was giving him a concerned expression. "What?" he asked defensively. 

"You look tired, Angel." She told him gently. 

He sighed, and let his shoulders slump. "I am at that, Christine." He replied softly. "I had intended to sleep this evening." He told her honestly. 

She looked guilty. "And I came along and spoilt that for you." It hurt him to know that she was blaming herself and he stepped forward, taking her face in his hands. She shivered beneath his fingertips, but the music told him she was not afraid or disgusted. 

"You merely waylaid my plans, ma chère." He corrected gently. 

"I don't want you to keep you from your sleep, Angel." He couldn't help the ironic smile that came to his face at that comment – his Christine, who had vexed him out of sleep uncountable times _now_ didn't want to keep him awake. 

"Do not worry, mon ange. Come, I'll cook you dinner." He offered, extending a hand to her. 

She shook her head. "You should go to bed." She told him pointedly. "Just tell me how to get back." 

He sighed, resisting the urge to rub his eyes – he couldn't do that properly in a mask. "Christine, you have been here for ten minutes. It took you longer to walk all this way." He pointed out. "At least eat, then you can go on your way." 

She seemed reluctant, but nodded, conceding. He took her to the kitchen, and let her explain all the different music she had heard earlier as he cooked. He was disconcerted by the news of Burket's new tone. The man was obviously planning something, and he was worried at what that could be. 

His Christine ate in the dining room, after unsuccessfully trying to convince him to eat with her, an awkwardness settling between them. He was not feeling at all loquacious, and his Christine had run out of things to say after complimenting his cooking. She looked around the cavern silently as she ate, studying a tapestry in great detail. 

Eventually she put down her fork and looked at him. "Well, this has been awkward." She announced. 

That seemed to shatter the tension, and he found himself laughing along with her. Eventually, he stood and cleared her dishes away. When he returned to the main cavern, she was standing by his desk, holding up the concept-sketch and studying it with a frown. "What is it, ma chère?" he asked, coming up behind her and wrapping his arms loosely around her torso. 

"I'm thinking that the only thing wrong with these designs is that the lights don't match up." She explained matter-of-factly. 

"That is perhaps the most important concern, yes." He agreed with a frown, trying to figure out what she was getting at. 

"So...you should approve the plans." She suggested pointedly. "But write a letter to Mark West saying that his lighting plans should be adjusted to fit the set design." She remarked. "Or, you know, just let me solve that problem." 

"You're telling me you want me to approve incompatible plans, and make you have to completely re-do your work so far?" he asked, confused. 

"Yes." She answered calmly. "Thinking about it, if we want the lights to really work with the play at all, there's going to have to be some adjustments anyway. If I have to rework the lights, it might as well be for a set." 

The Phantom frowned at her. Everything she did was unexpected, and he wondered if he would ever truly understand her. He ran a gloved hand down her bared arm and sighed. "I will write a note to Mister West – he was always far too fond of Fresnels." He agreed, taking the sketch from her and putting it back on the table. He stifled a yawn and glanced at the antique grandfather clock against the wall. He would be just waking up by now. 

"Angel?" his Christine's voice broke through his sleepy stupor. 

He turned her slowly in one place, and held her face in his gloved hands. "Yes, mon ange?" he returned. 

His Christine just rolled her eyes and took one of his hands, leading him through his lair. In his sleepy stupor, he allowed himself to be led without question. When he realised they were at the bed cavern, he stopped in his tracks. 

His Christine looked back at him and rolled her eyes again. "I've already told you, Angel: I'm not going to assault you." She told him pointedly. He felt a blush rising and turned his face away so she could only see his mask. "You need to sleep, Phantom." 

"And how exactly do you expect to get back to your suite?" he questioned pointedly. 

"I'll wait around for you to wake up. Heaven knows you've done it enough times for me." She remarked, pushing him firmly over the lip of the bed. 

He yawned, curling up against the pillows. Sleepily, he heard himself mumble: "There's a library cavern beyond the organ." before he drifted off. 

... 

A few hours later, Catherine was reading an old copy of Pride and Prejudice as she sat in the chair beside the bed. She wrinkled her nose in annoyance at the petty judgements of Lizzie Bennet and turned a few pages impatiently. 

"You found the library then?" She jumped in her seat with a cry of surprise, and looked down to see the Phantom watching her calmly. 

She closed the book and set it on the bedside table with a frown. "Did I wake you?" she asked, feeling guilty. She'd been trying to be as quiet as possible. He shook his head, beginning to sit up and she frowned. "You can't _possibly_ have had enough sleep!" she remarked sceptically as she pushed his shoulders to keep him down. He took her hands and held them away from himself. 

"Mon ange," he replied calmly, "I never sleep for too long." He told her. She arched an eyebrow, not believing it. "I'm not biologically disposed to." He added in explanation. 

She sat back against the seat and watched him jealously as he got out of the bed: how the hell could he do that and not look completely ridiculous? He towered over her and she took a moment to gauge how tall he actually was: he had to be at least six-three, probably more: almost a whole foot taller than she was, anyway. 

He offered her a hand and she took it instinctively. He pulled her to his feet and pushed her gently towards the main cavern. "If you'll excuse me for a while, ma chère, I would shower and change." He informed her softly. 

Ducking her head to hide her blush, she headed out of the cavern quickly, wishing she'd thought too grab the book before being herded out. She headed subconsciously towards the organ, drawn there by the instrumental of the 'Music of the Night'. 

She looked curiously at the sheets of music, frowning at the notes trying to figure out what they were. She sat gingerly on the seat, pressing a few keys until she found she found the first note. From there she slowly plodded her way through the opening accompaniment. Eventually, she found her way to the beginning of the vocals and glanced around warily before singing the words she knew by heart at this stage. 

" _No one would listen..._ " 

... 

He was right when he knew she would sound beautiful. He had finished dressing, only to hear his dear Christine's voice echoing ever-so-softly with hesitant notes from his organ. He entered the main cavern silently, watching her awkwardly play his first song to her. 

There was no real power or emotion in her voice, as she tried to hit the right notes, an octave higher than his. But, soft it was beautiful. She was in need of training, but according to her father's prediction, that was his job. He knew the Angel of Music story in a different tongue, but what Christine had neglected to mention was the Angel's key purpose: to bring musical talent to excellence. 

He had guessed her to be a singer: the subtlety of music in her speaking voice, her talent to hum on-key; these things pointed to vocal performance. He did not know, however, why she was ignoring her talent rather than asking her Angel of Music to train her. But he would wait until she found her voice, and then he would nurture it to greatness. It was his duty. 

He was her Angel of Music. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 16: The Trouble With Musicals**

* * *

His Christine was agitated, as she often was when receiving a letter from her mother. Lately, however, her excitement over the Fop's letters had outweighed her worry. The Phantom frowned as he leant against the wall and watched her slump over the vanity table, a square envelope in her hands. With a sigh, she opened it and took out an invitation card. 

At the angle she was holding the card he couldn't read what it said but anything that made her scowl like that couldn't be good. 

There was a knock at the door and she jumped, shoving all the other letters into the drawer with the others from her mother and the Fop. The invitation went into her back pocket. "Just a second!" she called. 

"It's just me." The Fool's voice called back. "You ready?" 

His Christine groaned and started tying up her hair. "Give us a minute or two!" 

"I'll be in the lobby. Hurry up!" he told her. 

The Phantom scowled. "And where, may I inquire, are you and Mister Mabry going?" he demanded. 

Three months ago, she would have run screaming from the room. Even two months ago, she would have jumped. Now, she just sighed and gave up on her hair. "Clothes shopping." She replied distastefully. "I haven't got a _thing_ to wear to the gala this weekend, and Greg needs a new tie." 

"You're leaving it a bit late, aren't you?" he asked. 

"I didn't even know I was expected to be at the gala until yesterday morning." She answered defensively. "Mum's at home this weekend, so I'm not going to get one of my formal dresses from the estate." The Phantom arched his eyebrow and his Christine frowned at the mirror. "Hey! Don't look at me like that." 

"Like what?" he challenged. 

"I can hear it. And stop feeling jealous about Greg, you've got nothing to worry about." She assured him, shucking on her coat. "I'll be back in a few hours. We'll have dinner, and you're eating tonight Angel!" she told him pointedly. 

He sighed, cherishing her concern but feeling guilty about it. "Mon ange," he sighed, "You know that my appetite isn't the same as yours." 

She sighed and stopped at the door. "Humour me?" she whispered softly. 

His heart twisted painfully in his chest. "You know I can deny you nothing, mon ange." He whispered next to her ear. 

"Nothing?" she asked softly, a thoughtful frown forming on her face. 

"Christine?" he asked in her ear. "What is it?" 

"I'll ask you later, Angel. Right now, I have to go. See you in a few hours?" She threw one last hopeful look at the mirror before disappearing out the door. 

The Phantom frowned and slipped through the mirror, heading over to the vanity desk and opening the drawer. He took out the Fop's letter, pulling his letter opener from a pocket. He carefully unsealed the envelope so he could fix it before his Christine returned home, and pulled the letter out. He wrinkled his nose at the wave of lavender scent, and unfolded the neatly-written missive. 

It was brief, mostly explaining that the Fop would be on holidays with someone named Anais, so he wouldn't be able to write. 

The Phantom scowled and folded the letter up, sliding it back into the envelope and resealing it with a quick dab of adhesive. He put the letter back in its place and shut the drawer, before heading back through the mirror and down to his lair. 

When he heard the Fool's enthusiastic chatter coming from the backstage corridors, he raced up to the Carlotta Suite, coming to the mirror just as Christine opened the door and said a hurried goodbye to the Fool. She leant against the door and took a deep breath. The Phantom noticed she didn't have any bags. 

"Your shopping trip was unsuccessful?" he asked. 

She nodded wearily and peeled off her jacket. "Horrible weather out there." She muttered bitterly. She put the dripping leather over the back of the chair at the vanity desk and glanced longingly towards the drawer of letters before turning to the mirror with a bright grin. "Dinner?" 

He took in the soaking legs of her jeans and dripping hair. "Perhaps you should shower and change into some dry clothes, ma chère?" he suggested. "I'll wait." 

His Christine looked down at her soaking clothes and blushed. "That's probably a good idea, actually." She agreed. She gave the mirror an apologetic look and slid the curtain closed. 

When she pulled the curtain aside again, she was dressed comfortably but prettily. She smiled and he opened the mirror. "Ready, mon ange?" he asked, offering her his hand. 

She nodded and took his hand, letting him lead her through the passageway to his lair that didn't involve lakes or boats. She sniffed the air appreciatively and headed straight into the dining room where he joined her a moment later with their meals. She smiled at him warmly and he returned one briefly before frowning at the seemingly mountainous portion before him. He simply wasn't hungry. 

"Just try to eat, Angel, please? For me?" she requested at a whisper. 

He mentally grimaced and forked a piece of ravioli. He ate it gingerly, appreciating the flavours if not the sustenance. This recipe had been one of Antoinette's, from years ago when she had taught him how to fend for himself. 

She smiled at him through her impeccable table manners. "Thank you, Angel." She said softly. 

"I can deny you nothing, ma chère." He answered gently. 

"So you tell me." She agreed, disappearing into her thoughts for a moment. She shook them off and gave him a devious grin. "Did you hear Miss Giordani at rehearsals yesterday?" 

They spoke of Miss Giordani's continuingly bad performance, until the conversation inevitably came back to the gala. 

Christine groaned, "Ugh, the gala." She rubbed the bags under her eyes. "Maybe my mother has a dinner with someone tomorrow evening. I need a dress." She mumbled, pushing around a piece of ravioli on her plate. 

His stomach squirming nervously, he silently cleared his throat and looked at her defeated expression. "Perhaps I could help, Christine?" 

She looked up at him with amused eyes, "Are you going to break into the estate?" she asked, sounding hopeful. 

He chuckled. "No, ma chère." He answered. She visibly deflated. "Better, I would hope." He ventured hopefully. She looked back at him in confusion and he stood, "Come with me." 

He took her through the main cavern to a hollow in the main cavern usually blocked off by a curtain. She arched an eyebrow curiously, "What's behind here?" 

"You'll see." He teased lightly, untying a few cords in the curtain purposefully slow. 

After a few moments, she cried in frustration: "Phantom!" 

He chuckled again and pulled the rest of the knot swiftly. "Welcome, mon ange," he said grandly, pulling the curtain aside. "To my haberdashery. In the American sense of the word." 

His Christine giggled a little as she went beyond the curtain. "Your sewing room?" she confirmed lightly. He gave her a hurt look and she smiled with a shake of her head. "I'm sorry. I actually think it's admirable that you know how to sew. My sewing skills are rather non-existent." She looked around the 'room' curiously. "How does this help me?" she asked dimly. 

"Patience, Christine." He cooed softly, lips close to her ear. She shivered slightly at the sensation and he stepped away, pulling a headless mannequin from behind a cluster of others. "How do you feel about wearing this?" he asked. She was frozen, staring at the dark red dress with a slack jaw but otherwise unreadable expression. "To the gala, I mean?" 

"Angel..." she breathed, stepping closer. "Angel it's beautiful!" she cried, hurrying over to it. 

He ducked his face into the shadows to hide his blush. "Thank you, ma chère." He whispered softy. He cleared his throat noiselessly and straightened his cravat. "Now, I guessed at the measurements, but I can easily take it in if necessary." 

She came back around the mannequin, blinking at him in surprise. "You made this dress for me?" she asked, breathless. 

"Of course." He agreed, confused at her expression. 

"I can't take it." She said quickly, moving to exit the haberdashery. 

He caught her arm and spun her fluidly around to face him. "Christine, ma chère, what do you mean by that?" he asked, confused. 

She sighed. "Phantom..." she started, frowning at the sudden swell in strings around them. "I cannot take...you must stop creating...making... _giving_ things to me!" she struggled to explain. "You have already given me so much – your music! – but I can't take this. I cannot keep asking these things of you." He stared at her, confused at her words. "You can deny me nothing, Angel. You said so yourself." 

He sighed in realization and pulled her close, embracing her and keeping her secure, reassured. "Ma chère, I cannot deny you anything, but that does not wish I would not have you ask." He told her, pulling away at the swell of orchestral music and cupping her face with a hand. "You cannot ask me to do anything that I am not more than willing to give – eager!" he paused, his paranoid heart pushing him to continue: "Except to ask me to leave. That you cannot ask of me." 

She gave him a reassuring smile, leaning into his hand. "So long as you promise the same, I will not ask." She offered him. 

He kissed her cheek gently. "Then we have a deal, ma chère." He agreed. "Now: please take the dress, I wish for you to have it." He pleaded. 

She sighed, seeming to weigh the consequences for a moment, before she nodded. "Okay." She tried for light and gave him a cheeky grin, "I have shoes that go with it anyway." 

"Then you simply _must_ take it!" he teased with a smile, the music fading away. His Christine sighed, and seemed to be thinking something difficult. He stroked her cheekbone with his thumb. "What is it, mon ange?" he asked. 

She gave him an awkward smile. "Another time, Angel. Perhaps I'll ask another time." 

... 

"What's with the box-seat?" Catherine asked suspiciously as she collected her ticket and invitation from her pigeon hole. 

Greg made a fruitless attempt to look innocent. "What box-seat?" he asked. 

"Box five." She replied moodily, "Why does everyone have this conspirital look about them whenever I tell them where I'm seated?" 

He just gave her a wicked grin. "You'll see!" he said in a sing-song voice. They began walking and she grinned helplessly at the Baby Elephant Walk that accompanied him whenever he moved. 

They were met halfway down the hallway by an irked Ray. Greg called out to him, and he slowed to meet them. The Baby Elephant gave way to the jaunty orchestral of Ray and Dennis, and Catherine sighed silently in relief. "Another note." Ray answered tersely. 

She almost physically jumped when they music suddenly changed to a tense orchestral shrieking. What the hell? 

"What does it say?" Greg asked darkly, and she realised that the new music was fuelled by him. She was suddenly wary of what he could do when sounding like this. 

Ray pulled out the letter, and she stared in bewilderment as he began to sing along with the renewed jaunty orchestra: " _Dear good sirs, RE: the new production – Miss Giordani is still a mess. If she does not learn to sing without being over-blown, I've no choice: perhaps an unwanted interruption will be best_ ." 

Greg's tense music returned, while Catherine stared around hopelessly – people _sung_ now? They actually burst into song like in musicals? He nodded and the two of them resumed their walk, the tense music continuing until Greg took a deep breath. She couldn't even be amused when the Baby Elephant Walk came back. 

He grinned at her, "So...?" he said pointedly. 

"So?" she returned, feeling out-of-sorts. 

"So!" he agreed. "What are—" 

"Sorry, Greg, I've gotta do something. See you tonight!" she yelled, hurrying down the hallway. She _had_ to talk to her Angel! What if people never really sung and she had actually gone around the bend? She needed answers, reassurance. She remembered to lock the door to her suite before heading to the mirror and hurrying to open it. Greg's tense music seemed to follow her as she ran, ever-so-calmly giving way to the Music of the Night. 

She pushed another mirror-glass aside and entered the main cavern of the Phantom's lair, staring around in desperation. "Phantom!" she yelled desperately. 

He appeared out of the bed-cavern instantly. "What is it, mon ange?" he asked, worried. He crossed the cavern so quickly it made her head spin. She took a step back, intimidated. "Christine, calm down!" he said desperately, "You're nearly hyperventilating!" 

His breath was hot, the heat radiating from him almost unbearable and she took a few steps back, staring at him. "Do they sing, Angel? Is it a musical?" she heard herself babbling, sounding she was underwater. 

Then, there was comforting arms around her, and a swell of music was rising. "Breathe." Her Angel whispered in her ear. "Breathe in, two, three four; and out, two, three, four." He coaxed gently. She complied helplessly, and found her heart rate slowing to a normal speed. She leant back into his embrace, savouring the comfort before he stepped away. 

He lifted her chin and looked her in the eyes. "What has so upset you, mon ange?" he asked gently. 

"Ray...Mister Giles...he sung, Angel. He _sung_! Like it was a musical!" she told him, disorientated. 

"Hm..." he hummed, releasing her face and sliding that hand to her shoulder. The music swelled, insistent, but she ignored it. "It happens, Christine." He told her calmly. "At least to you and I. Although, I don't believe Roger and Hammerstein came up with the concept themselves." He remarked matter-of-factly. She laughed at that, and his smile told her that the comment was for that reason alone. "Nothing's wrong with you, ma chère. You are just letting your soul hear The Music." He assured her gently. 

Catherine then became very aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. She blushed and tried to look where she couldn't see bare skin. "Um...there was something else..." she tried to remember, but couldn't concentrate too well. "Greg!" she remembered, "Greg...he scared me." She told him. "Well, not so much _him_ as his music. I know it's ridiculous usually, but when he heard about your note it...changed...it frightened me." She told him. 

"That is disconcerting." The Phantom agreed. "How did it sound?" he asked. 

"Chest...uh, _tense,_ that is. Orchestral." She paused, tilting her head as she listened. "Exactly like that, actually." 

Following her line of sight, he blushed. "I was in the middle of dressing." He told her stiffly. 

"Evidently." They stood awkwardly for a while, saying nothing and trying to ignore the seductive orchestration curling around them. She cleared her throat and peeked at the tatty toes of her trainers. "I should go." She said. 

There was another awkward pause. "I should finish dressing. I will see you tonight." He said, turning and heading towards the bed-cavern. 

"You're going?" she asked, surprised. He had never shown any fondness to this particular musical. 

He turned around to face her, eyebrow arching. "Of course." he answered, "I have a box." He told her, as if it was common knowledge. She mentally shook her head – it probably was. 

"So do I." She remarked. 

The Phantom hesitated, then smirked. He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'the new employee prank, of course' and fixed her with a brilliant smile. If she hadn't been so suspicious, she would have gone weak at the knees – her Angel had a beautiful smile. "Until tonight then, ma chère, farewell." He told her, and then was gone. 

... 

"I don't get it." Catherine remarked, despairing. "The musical is called 'A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum'...right?" 

"That is correct, ma chère." The Phantom agreed. 

"...But nobody was going to the Forum!" she pointed out, infuriated. 

The Phantom laughed aloud, but cut himself off mid-chortle to glare at the doorway. "You have company," he whispered in her ear, "I'll be waiting once you've dismissed the Fool." On that note, he was gone from the box before she had time to finish shivering from his breath against her neck. 

The door opened and Greg entered warily. "So...?" he prompted. 

" **Nobody was on their way to the Forum!** " she yelled, outraged. 

He looked at her with a helpless frown. "Cath, you are insane." He told her matter-of-factly. 

"Catherine." She folded her arms under her chest. "Musical needs a new name." She muttered under her breath, "There was no Forum involved." 

He rolled his eyes and offered her a hand up. She ignored it and stood on her own. "Come on, we're toasting to a successful show in the lobby." He told her, offering her his attempt at a gentlemanly arm. 

"Wrong way." She commented. At his blank look she rolled her eyes and picked up his other arm and bending it into the right position. She wrapped a hand around his elbow and allowed him to lead her out of the room. A few employees were giving her expectant expressions, but she made sure to smile at them gently. The managers' jaunty song was flowing lively through the lobby and she took her place alongside the other members Lighting Crew. She felt totally out of place. 

After the toast and a long-winded but incredibly insincere director's speech, a small orchestra sprang to life on the landing. It clashed with the managers' jaunty tune and Catherine decided to just ignore them both. Greg grinned at her as he came over with more glasses of champagne. "Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?" he asked flirtaciously. 

She arched an eyebrow – how much had he had to drink so far? "That would be the fourth time." She answered curtly. 

"Well, you do." He told her forcefully. "Look stunning, that is." He clarified unnecessary. 

"Uh-huh, so you've said." She said vaguely. They were saved from further awkwardness when a bunch of dancers came up with eager expressions. "Hello ladies, how is your evening?" 

"Good, thanks." The apparent leader, a dark-haired beauty with razor-sharp cheekbones answered. "So what happened in the box?" 

A tense, discordant baseline threaded underneath the music and Catherine resisted the urge to look around for Burket. She arched an eyebrow and made her voice sound subtly sarcastic. "The Ghost came in after the overture and we watched the show pleasantly as we critiqued Miss Giordani's inferior performance." 

Gooseflesh rose on her arms as Greg's tense orchestral jumped to life, simmering with Burket's dark undertones. The dancers rolled their eyes in perfect synchronization and went back into the crowd. She glanced at at Greg and Burket giving each other intense, unreadable looks. She shivered, afraid, and Greg glanced at her. "Cold?" he asked as the manager's music came back. 

"Yeah, a little." She agreed, realising that she was. 

He slid the jacket of his tux off and draped it around her shoulder. "Here." He said gently. 

"Uh...thanks." he answered awkwardly. She repressed a yawn and handed her full champagne to a passing waiter. "Can I go now?" she asked tiredly. 

"Of course." He answered, "I'll walk you to your room." 

Catherine bit her lip and hesitated, but he had already started walking away. She sighed and caught up with him, something in the music telling her she wouldn't like how this would end. When they reached her door they stood awkwardly. "Um...thanks." she said, taking off the jacket and handing it back to him. 

"Catherine..." he said seriously, "can I be honest for a moment?" 

Her eyebrow arched without conscious thought. "I, for one, would hope you've never been _dis_ honest with me." She replied. 

"I care for you. A lot." He said intensely. "I have for a long time, and I just wanted to tell you that I—" 

"Greg." She interrupted before he could get too far he couldn't recover. "Please stop." She begged. 

He gave her a hurt look. "Did I ever have a chance, Catherine? Compared to your _glorious_ Opera Ghost?" he asked painfully. 

"No." She said, deciding brutal honesty was her only course of action. "But even if he had never come into the picture, you still would never have had the chance." 

"Why not?" he asked, his voice tight. 

"You're a child, Greg. You have the heart of a child, and that flawless optimism repels me." She said, eyes unfocusing as she lost herself to thought. "My mother did her best to grow me up, and I have seen – lost _so much_." She looked at his bewildered expression. "You are a friend, Greg, but you could never be anything more." 

He shoved his hands in his pockets and glared at his polished shoes. "So...you love the Ghost because he's a cynic?" he guessed. 

She laughed softly. "There's more to it than that." She answered gently. 

"Tell me, Catherine, because I don't understand!" he pleaded, desperate. "How can you love that _monster_?" 

"He is _not_ a monster." She replied defensively. "I keep telling you that..." She took a deep breath. "I _love_ him, Greg. I truly do. If you could see the man that _I_ see..." she trailed off hopelessly at his unimpressed look. "He...he cares about me." 

"Does he love you, Catherine?" Greg asked, concerned. She shook her head helplessly, mouthing 'I don't know' when she couldn't find her voice. "Has he _told_ you?" He pressed. 

She shook her head. "But don't you get it, Greg? It doesn't matter whether he does or doesn't." 

"Because _you_ love _him_." He finished tiredly. He sighed and held out his hand. "Thanks, Catherine. You've clarified some things for me." 

She shook his hand. "One day, someone's going to be lucky to have you." She told him gently. 

He kissed her cheekbone gently and released her hand. "Goodnight, Catherine." He said, turning down the hallway back towards the party. 

"Night, Greg." She called at him before going into her suite and leaning her head against the door with her eyes squeezed shut. "Now how much of _that_ did you hear?" 

"Since you came to the door, Christine." The Phantom told her. She jumped when she felt an arm on her shoulder, but allowed him to turn her and take her into her embrace. But he did not pull her close and when she opened her eyes to see why not, he was giving her the most intense expression she had seen on his face. "Ma chère, mon ange, my Christine..." he whispered slowly. Her eyes widened in surprise when he pressed a gentle, lingering kiss onto the very corner on her mouth. 

He pulled back and smiled at her warmly, the intense expression in his eyes unchanging. "What was that for?" she asked breathlessly. He just closed his eyes and pulled her into a tight embrace, a hand stroking the smooth fabric over the middle of her back. When he released her and disappeared into the shadows of her room, she headed over to the vanity and started pulling pins out of her hair. "Have you been waiting long, Angel?" she asked, still feeling quite breathless. 

"Not too long." He answered, stepping up behind her and removing the last, key, hairpin. He picked up the brush from the table and started brushing through the curls with a gentle hand. "I expected you to spend longer at the party, actually." 

She shrugged. "I don't care for parties, much. Especially not my mother's." She remarked sourly. She groaned, remembering the invitation currently being ignored at the bottom of her theatre paperwork. He left her hair loose as he placed the brush back on the vanity desk. He stroked up her arm, across her shoulder and over her neck as he re-set one of her sleeves. 

She couldn't help the next yawn, and when her eyes cleared, the Phantom was half-hidden in the shadows once more. "You are tired, mon ange. I should let you sleep." He said gently. 

"Oh." She said softly. "Oh, okay." She blinked tiredly, watching his silhouette and trying to keep the disappointment she felt from her appearance. "Goodnight then, Angel." He looked at her, his brow creasing, but he nodded purposefully and opened the mirror. "Will you go with me to my mother's party?" 

She clamped a hand over her mouth in embarrassment. She hadn't meant it to come blurting out like that, practically yelling it at him. He turned around with a confused expression, "What was that, ma chère?" he asked. 

She blushed and avoided looking at him by digging out the invitation. "My mother invited me to one of her parties at the end of this month. I was wondering if you would go with me...as my date..." 

She caught sight of the Phantom in the mirror, as he touched his mask gingerly. "That is not a practical idea, Christine. Far too many questions." He told her, his voice sounding...disappointed? 

She stood and handed him the invitation. "It's a Masquerade Ball." She told him hopefully, "Think about it please, Angel? I don't want to go alone and..." she hesitated, biting her lip, "I want to go with you." She whispered, nervous. 

He put the invitation on the desk and cupped her face gently, looking her deep in the eyes. The music in the air swelled: that same unresolved romantic melody between them. "Christine, I can deny you nothing." He repeated. "If you want me to go with you, I will go with you. But, remember, ma chère: my social skills aren't the best." 

"Angel," she said gently, "It's a high-society masquerade ball." She explained, "Any faux pas will simply be dismissed as snobbery." 

"Christine..." he started. 

"Angel." She interrupted him. Feeling a wave of guilt, she continued: "I am asking you to go with me." 

"Then I will go." He told her simply. He held her close one last time, before disappearing behind the mirror. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 17: The Fool, The Fop and the Phantom**

* * *

Conflicted, he stared at the mask lying on a bed of crepe-paper. The Phantom had come to his lair, apprehensive, to see the plastic-shiny black box from a tailor's lying seemingly innocent on his bed-sheets. The echo of a viola told him his Christine had left the box for him. 

He stood there, waylaid at the very first stage of the gift: a black leather mask lay over red, gazing up at him, expressionless. He could not deny the fact that he had felt an initial stab of pain at the sight of it, old memories that sprung up from receiving a mask. He had a strange relationships with masks, hating the very thought of them until it became necessary for him to make one for himself. Now that he was _receiving_ one again...the residual pain threatened to arise, and he had to remind himself that his Christine had no unkind intent in sending it to him. 

He curled his bare fingers around the black leather, lifting the mask from the box and taking a controlled inhale. It was made of very soft, high-quality leather; pliable. He noted with a thick throat that it went just as far down his face as his porcelain one did, covering the other side of his face as well: his dear Christine had respected his privacy, didn't try to pry and make him reveal what he had hidden. He swallowed the lump forming in his throat, setting the mask aside and peeling aside more layers of the red crepe. 

Folds of black and off-white lay beneath, and he dressed in the costume quickly, despairing when he could not fit the front of the shirt together to cover his chest. He checked the label at the bottom of the box and flushed slightly. 'Don José  & Carmen', it read. Now very much aware that his dear Christine was going to be dressed as _Carme_ n he left the shirt to gape and turned back to his impasse with the mask. 

Black leather looked back at him, mockingly blank. He eased sweat-sticky porcelain away from his face and wiped his face clean with a soft hand-towel. Taking a deep breath, he picked up the black leather with a firm resolve. He told himself that Christine had wanted to go with him. She loved him. She meant nothing by the mask. 

With that thought secure in his mind, he moulded the mask to the contours of his face and went on his way to the Carlotta Suite. 

The curtain was pulled shut, and he waited in expectation, calming down his breathing. After some time, his Christine pulled aside the curtain with a mischievous glint in her eye. Her lips were a sultry red, her eyes smoky, eyebrows uncharacteristically sculpted and hair styled back with a red rose pinned at the side. The rest of her costume was covered pointedly by a long black trench-coat, which explained the expression she wore. 

He slid the mirror aside fluidly, watching the expectant expression give way to something dazed – reminiscent of the very first time they had come face-to-face. She blinked and shook her head, as if clearing it. "Mum sent a limo, sorry." She explained, "It's waiting out the front for us." 

"I am as ready as I will ever be, mon ange." He told her lightly, ignoring the leaden feeling in his stomach. She seemed to hesitate, nearly offering him a hand, before just smiling and beckoning him to follow her. "Where is your mask, ma chère?" he questioned. 

"In my pocket." She answered lightly. "I'll put it on in the coat room so the doormen can see who I am to tell my mother when we've arrived." 

They stepped out into the elaborate lobby and crossed through the front doors to the road where, as promised, a sleek black limousine was waiting, the driver standing diligently by the door. "Sir. Madam." He greeted in a polite neutral, opening the door fluidly. 

Christine gave him a smile and a fifty as she slid into the interior. The Phantom acknowledged him with a nod before joining her. He looked around, repressing his emotions: he had never been in a limousine before. Christine was digging around in the little refrigerator, coming up with a bottle of cider and smiling at him warmly. "What would you like?" she asked. 

"A water will suit me perfectly, ma chère." He replied, her smile infectious. 

She handed him a glass bottle of spring water and sat across from him with a determined expression. "So, I've created you a back story of sorts." She explained, hushed. He arched an eyebrow, but inclined his head for her to continue. "Your name is Oliver Gaulle, and you own an Opera House in Paris. You used to run it, but are currently looking for a new investment in the London area. We met six months ago at the Royal Opera House – I was on a tour, you were making enquiries." She explained quickly. 

He committed the details to memory. "Oliver Gaulle?" he asked dubiously. 

She shrugged, "You sign your notes with 'O.G.' – I'm a terrible improviser." She dismissed, "We've been dating for three months, but you're reluctant to meet my family. And that's all my mother could get out of me before I hung up." 

"I understand." He answered stiffly, eyes widening in abject horror as they pulled up beside a brightly-lit and gaudily-decorated function hall. 

Christine groaned and put down her bottle, taking a deep breath and giving him a wavering, nervous smile. "Here we go." She said bravely, stepping out of the limousine. 

The Phantom took a deep breath and followed her. 

... 

The party promised to be like every single one of her mother's previous affairs: drunken debauchery thinly veiled by very large egos. Catherine took a deep breath to calm her nerves and unbuttoned her coat, cringing inwardly: why had she not insisted the costume be somewhat more modest that this? 

She fixed the black domino mask over her eyes and took a deep breath as she turned back to the Phantom, only to have it catch on the expression that crossed his face as he took her in. She blushed and slid the sleeves of the peasant-shirt back up over her arms. She could do nothing about the relatively modest amount of cleavage she was showing, but was intensely aware that the red lacy shawl-come-skirt was pretty much see-through in any decent amount of light. She cleared her throat and fiddled with the red flower sown onto the front of the black corset-style bodice. 

By the time she realised she was distracting herself by going over the details of her dress, the sleeves had slid off her shoulders again and he was offering her a gentlemanly arm and avoiding her gaze. 

They entered the main ball room, taking their bearing from the top of the steps as some hired help announced their arrival. A few fervent whispers erupted, which she overheard as they descended the stairs to a nervous orchestral piece not being played by the full orchestra assembled on a dais: "Is that Miranda's daughter?" "Who's that gorgeous man she has beside her?" "What's he doing with a girl like her?" "Oliver Gaulle? Have you ever heard of him?" "She hasn't been seen for months. She's gone incognito." "Her father was the violinist. You know, the Mozart scandal?" "Pretty voice, but she has a ri _dic_ ulous obsession with musical theatre." 

Catherine came to a stop before her mother, dressed as a crowned goddess – she couldn't guess which one it was. "Good evening, mother." She greeted confidently casual. 

"Hello Christine," she returned far-too lightly. She eyed the Phantom, seizing him up as she extended a hand to him. "Mister Gaulle, I presume?" 

"Monsieur Gaulle, if you wouldn't mind, madam." Catherine neatly caught her slack jaw at hearing him affect a heavy Parisian accent. She knew he spoke French (had heard him speak it a number of times), but had never expected the accent. It was...thrilling. "Lady Miranda Daae-Hetherington. _Enchanté_." He returned, before pressing a kiss on the back of her hand. 

Her mother grinned widely, giving her daughter an approving look. "You two enjoy yourselves. I will speak with you later, Christine!" she called, disappearing somewhere back into the crowds of increasingly intoxicated guests. 

Catherine turned back to the Phantom, allowing a small smile to grace her face. "You impressed her." She remarked. 

" _Oui_ ," he answered lightly, maintaining the heart-stopping accent. "Your mother is an easy woman to impress, it would seem." He added. 

"Well, I could've told you that." She remarked, repressing a laugh. "She will look for me again in another hour, perhaps two. After that, she won't notice if we leave." She heard his very soft groan and grinned at him. She completely agreed: two hours was a very long time to stay. 

She jumped with a small scream as someone tapped her on the waist, whirling in outrage to see who would be so bold as to touch her. She blinked in confusion at the pale, blonde-haired _el Zorro_ grinning at her before... " _Raoul_?!" she gasped, throwing her arms around him in a fierce embrace. 

" _Bonsoir_ Little Lotte!" he returned, grin widening, as she pulled away. "Surprise!" he added enthusiastically. His eyes slid past her to the Phantom, and his eyelids twitched as he arched his eyebrow unseen beneath black cloth and a wide-brimmed hat. "Who's this?" he asked pointedly. 

"A _pleasure_ to meet you, Vicomte." The Phantom returned, inflection on the word conveying he meant the exact opposite. He stepped around and shook the Vicomte's hand with firm threat. 

Catherine rolled her eyes as they seized each other up. "Raoul, this is my...boyfriend monsieur Oliver Gaulle. Angel, this is my dearest childhood friend, the Raoul de Chagny." 

"I must say, monsieur, it's a surprise to meet you." Raoul answered, a hint of effrontery in his voice, "Lotte has never mentioned you before." 

"Lotte?" the Phantom returned, his voice curling in distaste. 

"It's a childhood nickname, Angel." She answered calmly, putting a hand on his arm and stepping up beside him. His bicep relaxed slowly beneath his shirt and she turned a suspicious look to the waiting Zorro. "You didn't tell me you were in _London_." She said pointedly. 

"I wanted to surprise you. Lady Daae-Hetherington told me you would be attending tonight and thought it an excellent opportunity to scare the living daylights out of you." He grinned at her again. 

She rolled her eyes, but his grin was infectious and she found herself smiling back. "Am I to assume that Anais is here as well?" she questioned. The muscle beneath her hand flexed ever so slightly, and she looked up at the Phantom's tense jaw-line. "Anais duBlanc is Raoul's fiancé...Actually, are you engaged yet?" she asked, turning a glance to Raoul. 

"As of last Friday, yes." He answered, a slight tenseness to his voice. 

"There you are!" a high-pitched, feminine voice greeted. Catherine looked to see tall, willowy Anais spiriting towards them dressed as a flamenco-dancer. "Who is this?" she asked suspiciously, eyeing Catherine in distaste. 

"Anais duBlanc, I'm Ca...Christine Daae." she forced herself to greet warmly, brilliant grin hiding the instinctive jealousy that arose from seeing the other girl. 

"Ah, yes, Christine." The taller woman agreed, obviously not happy to meet her. Her eyes slid sideways to the so-far silent Phantom, suddenly lighting up with interest. "And this is your date?" 

"Monsieur Oliver Gaulle." Raoul answered for her, his tone of voice dark. He was obviously a little jealous of the attention his fiancé was turning to the other man. 

Anais extended her hand expectantly, and the Phantom removed his arm from Catherine's to kiss her hand lightly. She felt her stomach twist and she crossed her arms under her chest in annoyance. She expected _Anais_ to be so blatantly obvious about her attraction, but the Phantom could at least _pretend_ not to be interested when she was _standing right here_! 

The Phantom glanced at her as he straightened up, and she realised with mild embarrassment that the music was conveying her and Raoul's discontent with the situation. He stepped back beside her, wrapping an arm possessively around her waist. The music became soft, reassuring and she gave him a gentle smile. 

"Well that's just adorable." Anais remarked distastefully. "Raoul, I'm thirsty. Perhaps you and Oliver should get us drinks." She suggested pointedly, glaring at her fiancé. Catherine arched an eyebrow at him, but he nodded curtly and turned to leave without meeting her eyes. 

"What would you like to drink, ma chère?" the Phantom whispered softly in her ear. She shivered at the sensation and pressed closer to him. 

"An apple cider, thanks, Angel." She whispered back. He kissed her cheek softly and went after Raoul with a quick, but casual, stride. Anais took her rather harshly by the arm and lead her out onto the balcony. A couple were embracing by the railing, a deeply romantic tune curling around them. 

"So, tell me about Oliver." Anais demanded, her tone laced with a warning of authority. "Where did you meet him?" 

Catherine arched an eyebrow, but met the lady's gaze squarely, clearly conveying that she was not at all intimidated. "At the Opera House." She answered vaguely. 

The music in the air told her that Anais was infuriated at not getting what she want, but her expression stayed demanding. "Where does he come from?" she pressed. 

"Paris, I think." Catherine answered smoothly and vaguely. "I believe he owns an Opera House." 

"You _think_?" Anais pressed, music rising in expectation. "You don't know? You can't be very close, then." She derived. 

"He's very stoic, _mademoiselle_." Catherine answered, temper tweaking. "He does not talk about himself much. That does _not_ mean, however, that we are not close." 

"He's probably married." Anais mused, not listening to the other woman at all. 

"There you two are!" Raoul's enthusiastic voice called from the doorway. "You disappeared on us." 

"Christine wanted some air." Anais lied fluidly, giving the other woman a looking filled with patronizing sympathy. 

"She does look flushed." He agreed. 

The Phantom returned to his place beside Catherine, an arm wrapped around her waist. The tense music in the air segued to the soothing, calming rendition of the 'Angel of Music' lullaby. She smiled at him warmly and he handed her a drink. When she returned her attention to the other couple, Raoul was watching them with a pointedly blank expression, but she could see distaste buried deep in his eyes. She fixed him with a brilliant smile. 

He surrendered, grinning back at her. Anais scowled and fixed her fiancé with a wide-eyed pout. "Raoul, I'm cold." She said pointedly. 

"Ah, of course, my dear." He replied, sweeping his cloak off his shoulders and draping it over hers. "Better?" he asked. 

Catherine rolled her eyes at his lack of chivalry and found herself leaning instinctively closer to the Phantom. His muscles tensed subtly, and she repressed the frown that threatened to break out over her face – what was wrong with him? 

Anais turned her pout back to her fiancé. "Raoul, I want to dance." She whined. 

"My dear, I don't like this song. The next one, I promise." He answered, resigned. 

"Shall we dance, ma chère?" The Phantom whispered to her gently. 

She nodded and smiled lightly at Raoul. "We'll be back soon." She told him, before allowing herself to be whisked away. 

... 

The Fop was _exactly_ what the Phantom thought he would be. Without having had a single alcoholic drink since they had arrived, he was stumbling and _giggling_ around the dance floor with Christine. After a moment, Christine's mother crossed the room and took her daughter aside with a far-too serious expression. 

Raoul returned to the table, flushed with exertion. He seemed to calm, figuratively sober up. He looked at Anais seriously. "Darling, why don't you go speak with the Duchess? I need to talk to Monsieur Gaulle." He suggested, faking a nice tone that didn't harmonize with the music in the air, nor the expression in his eyes. Anais pouted, coming across more pathetic than persuasive. The Fop's expression hardened, as did his words when he spoke: "Go talk to the Duchess, Anais." 

The flighty woman got to her feet with a scowl. "Fine. Whatever." She dismissed his authority as she began to walk away. 

The Fop looked at him squarely, and spoke in cold French: "If you would join me on the balcony, monsieur." 

The Phantom knew that it was not a request, and felt disinclined to obey. However the hard expression in the Fop's baby-blue eyes made him curious – what could this carefree spirit think was so important? He stood fluidly, stopping himself from the instinctual arm jerk that would toss his missing cape aside. He followed the blue-eyed Fop out onto the balcony. 

"I want to talk to you about Lotte." He began in French. 

The Phantom's fists clenched, a spark of anger bubbling in his guts. "What could _you_ possibly have to say to me about _Christine_?" he demanded icily, in the same tongue. 

"Plenty." The Fop replied, attempting match his tone but failing by a few degrees. "Lotte and I have been friends since she was six years old. There is very little I don't know about her." He shook his head and removed his hat, rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I am not here to contest how well I know her, Gaulle." He pointed out tiredly. "I am here to give you a warning." 

The Phantom stood tall, emphasizing his height over the shorter, weaker opponent. "You _dare_ threaten me, Vicomte?" he demanded, keeping his voice low and dangerous. 

The Fop met his gaze steadily, determined. "There is _nothing_ I would not do for Lotte." He told him resolutely. "Nothing." He added firmly. The Phantom continued to glare at him, waiting for him to continue with his imminent threat. "If you are toying with her, or have malicious intentions, you will cease your interactions with her after tonight." The Phantom opened his mouth to retort, but the Fop's glare hardened and he took a step forward. "You _will_. That is non-negotiable. A man in my position has the capabilities of coming through with any threat I deliver. _If_ your intent towards Lotte is anything less than that of a gentleman, you will desist." 

The Phantom arched his eyebrow, grudgingly impressed. If only the Fop could direct this much loyalty and dedication to his fiancé, Anais would be head-of-heels in love with him. The Phantom scowled. As it stood, the Fop was instead defending Christine's heart – Christine who, by her own words, was _his_! 

"If you hurt her, monsieur, I will hire a number of gentlemen to make sure that you pay physically for every emotional wound you inflict." The Fop warned in a low voice. "Do you understand?" 

"You are being blunt, Vicomte, and I am not a simpleton." The Phantom replied coldly. 

"Good." The Fop snapped. 

"Anything else?" The Phantom challenged, unimpressed. 

The Fop narrowed his eyes suspiciously and went to say something, when a familiar voice in English sprung up from the doorway. "If you two are talking about me, I'm going to pout." 

The Fop shot him a commanding glare and turned to face Christine with an exaggerated gasp, "No Lotte! Not the pout!" he cried over-dramatically, switching back to English. 

She smirked reluctantly and approached them, "Shall we go inside? Anais has ordered us another round of drinks." She informed them. 

The Phantom watched the momentary grimace that crossed the blue-eyed Vicomte's face, before it was replaced with a bright grin. "Let's!" he agreed enthusiastically. He headed back inside, and the Phantom went to follow. 

Christine latched her hand around his elbow in the guise of walking alongside him. "What did you two say about me?" she demanded angrily. 

"He threatened me." He replied calmly, twisting the music in the air to calm her. "The Young Vicomte is fiercely protective of you, ma chère." He added distastefully. 

"Raoul and I have been friends since he was eight," she explained calmly, "You don't retain a friendship for that long without developing a strong sense of loyalty." 

"Somehow, _ma_ chère, I suspect there is more than friendship at the foundation." He remarked bitterly. 

She flushed and looked away with a scowl. "I'm sure you would be mistaken, Phantom." She retorted angrily. "Raoul feels nothing more than long-standing friendship towards me." She told him pointedly. 

His anger sparked furiously, and he gripped her arm desperately. "And _you_ , Christine?" he demanded with a growl. 

She yanked arm away and pulled her sleeves up harshly. "There is only _friendship_ between us, Phantom. If you trusted me, you would believe that." She told him, before turning on her heel and stalking back into the ballroom with a practically luminescent grin. 

... 

Catherine was hurt. Not so much physically as emotionally, but her chest ached uncomfortably at the bittersweet music rumbling through the air. Anais and Raoul looked up from their drinks expectantly when she sat down, but she smiled at them in a carefree manner. She listened with a pleasantly neutral expression as Anais reiterated some anecdote the Duchess had explained just a moment ago. 

After a moment, the chair beside her scraped quietly against the floor as the Phantom took a seat. She turned to look at him, pleading with her eyes. His expression was sorrowful and apologetic, and he whispered a quiet: "I'm sorry." 

She smiled to show she forgave him, and pressed a soft kiss against his jaw. She giggled softly as she pulled away and saw a bright red smear on his chin and rubbed it away. He caught her hand and kissed the pad of her thumb. Her breath caught and she met his mismatched eyes, entranced once again as the romantic orchestral swelled around them. 

That was until Anais' voice sliced through it neatly. "Should we give you two some privacy or direct you towards the nearest hotel?" she sneered. 

"Anais!" Raoul gasped, scandalized. 

Catherine shook her head. She affected a yawn and looked around futilely for a clock. "What is the time, actually?" she asked. 

Raoul slid up the black sleeve of his shirt and checked the watch fastened permanently to his wrist. "It's about half-eleven." He answered, pulling his sleeve back down. "Are you two staying for the unmasking at midnight?" he asked. 

She heard the Phantom's panic in the music, and fixed Raoul with a disgusted expression. " _Un_ masking? Does _no one_ know about mask etiquette these days?" she demanded sourly. 

"I'll take that as a no, shall I?" he asked with a small grin. "In that case, Little Lotte, may I have this dance?" he asked, standing and offering her a hand. 

She glanced at the Phantom, question in her eyes. His mouth twisted in his disapproval, but he nodded stiffly. "I will wait." He told her calmly. She kissed him lightly on the exposed jaw and stood, following Raoul out onto the dance floor but not taking his hand. 

Raoul swept her into a distanced waltz position and stepped her backwards and forwards across the marble floor. "You and Monsieur Gaulle seem close." He remarked. 

She pulled a childish face at him, before letting an involuntary smile settle over her features. "I love him, Raoul. I do." She told him. 

"Lotte..." he paused, then sighed. "Do you think that's wise? Allowing yourself to fall for this man?" Outraged, she opened her mouth to tell him _exactly_ where he could shove his opinion, when he fixed her with an expressive look. "I only say it for your own good, Lotte. Do you remember what your father said?" he pressed. 

"My father said a lot of things Raoul." She told him desperately, "He was quite verbose." 

"Right near the end?" Raoul prompted. 

She shook her head, "It was a hard time, Raoul." She answered painfully. 

"He said, and these were his exact words: 'Never waste your time loving someone who does not love you back'." He recited passionately. "You need to think, Lotte, very seriously, about the implications of falling for this man. _Can_ he love you back? Because if he can't, then you will only end up being hurt." 

She flinched, and averted his gaze from his baby-blue eyes framed in pale blonde lashes. "I wish for _once_ ," she said fiercely, her anger sparking, "that _someone_ would believe that he could love me!" she clenched her fists, one on his shoulder and the other in his hand. 

"Lotte, I wish I could believe that he loved you." He remarked calmly, gently. "I just want you to be wary. You should be careful with your heart, and make sure you can invest it wisely. A gentle heart like your own is far too easily broken." 

She scowled at him and yanked her hands away, "Well, you would know all about _that_ , wouldn't you Vicomte?" she spat. 

"Lotte!" he gasped, upset. She turned on her heel and stormed towards their table. "Lotte, please wait!" he begged. 

"No!" she hissed angrily, whirling back on him. "You're such a hypocrite! Here you are, engaged to _Anais duBlanc_ when neither of you even _like_ each other but you have the **nerve** to lecture me about false relationships?" she demanded icily. 

"Not _false_ , Lotte." He corrected firmly, "One-sided." 

Her anger deflated, and she fell into his embrace, defeated. "I don't know if he loves me, Raoul." She whispered softly. "I've said it at least twice now, but he hasn't...hasn't confirmed either way." She took a shuddering breath. "I have to believe that he can, Raoul. I _have_ to." 

Catherine pulled away then, and the two of them looked at each other for a long time, before Raoul tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. "For your sake, Lotte, I hope he can too." He added gently, before leading her out onto the balcony. "Now, unfortunately, I have more to lecture you about." He added apologetically. 

She sighed and rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "By all means, Raoul, go ahead." 

"Lotte, I'm worried about your dedication to your work." He remarked gently. "I mean, I know theatres are generally in-door places, but you look so pale – when was the last time you actually _saw_ the sun?" 

She frowned, a little perturbed when she had to seriously try and remember. "Oh! Last Sunday! I went to check my post-box in the...middle of the day..." she trailed off at his horrified expression. "What?" she asked nervously. 

"Lotte! Four years ago you would burst into _tears_ if you missed a single sunrise or sunset!" he remembered desperately. 

"Raoul, some of us aren't heir to a title and fortune – we have to _work_ for our money." She pointed out. "And when _we_ are forced to go out into the real world, we have to let go of our inconvenient and time-consuming obsessions." 

He looked at her sadly. "Christine, you know your life doesn't have to be like that." He told her. 

She sighed, and stepped away from him. "I don't _want_ this lifestyle." She said, indicating the busy hall with a sweep of her arm. 

"Lotte, why? Why don't you want it? It's everyone else's dream!" he asked, confused. 

"It's too deceitful, Raoul." She answered quietly. "Everything is...lies and pretense." She looked at the whirling crowd, bob and weave around each other on the dance floor. "You look out there and see a maze of social expectations, gossip and reputations. _I_ look out there and I see shadow puppets lying about other people's lies. Neither of us like the high society, but I have the chance to escape it." She looked back at him, feeling pity and sorrow curling around her chest. "And I'm taking that opportunity and running with it. Do you understand?" 

Raoul was watching the dancers, eyes glimmering with some unexplained inner sadness. "We promised each other we'd run away together once, remember?" he reminisced. 

"We promised each other many times." She corrected softly. "But you have a _title_ , Raoul. You can't just...disappear into the real world – you don't have the opportunity." 

He pulled her into another embrace and kissed her very softly on the cheek. A familiar spark of warmth spread from the point of contact, and his warm breath sighed against her skin. "But you do." He pointed out sadly. "Promise me, Lotte: promise me you will live the life we always spoke about." 

"Run-down apartment in the city?" she remembered, a smile growing on her face. 

"A puppy, even though it's against health regulations?" he continued. 

"Working into the late hours of the night to cover rent and food?" she added. 

"A man to love you, regardless of your past?" Raoul finished, his face falling slightly. 

She tapped him and gave him a mocking grin: "You never said you wanted a _husband_ , Raoul!" she teased gently. 

He chuckled and pushed a lock of hair behind her shoulders. "That was my dream for you, Little Lotte." He corrected tenderly. With a sigh, he stepped away. "Promise me, Lotte?" 

Guiltily, her stomach squirmed. She didn't want most of those things, not any more. "I can only promise you I'll try." She ducked the promise fluidly. 

"Good." He agreed. "Come on, it's close to midnight and you should get out of here." 

She took his offered arm as he guided her back to the table. "This has been nice, Raoul. We have to meet with each other again, soon." 

"Of course, Little Lotte." He agreed easily. 

"Well _that_ was more than a dance, Raoul!" Anais interrupted them, her voice high-pitched and rather screeching. 

Catherine flinched, listening to Raoul and Anais' old-married-couple music intertwined with the harsh staccato of the Phantom's jealousy. Wearily, she accepted that and gave him a pleading and apologetic expression. "Shall we leave, Angel?" she asked tiredly. 

"I think that would be an ideal choice." He answered tensely. He got to his feet and bowed to Anais, sweeping past Raoul without acknowledgment. 

Catherine sighed and looked at Raoul. "Sorry." She whispered softly. 

"Don't apologize for him, Lotte." The Vicomte remarked, his voice (and music in the air) laced with low anger. "Remember what I've said." He told her, before kissing her hand lightly and waving as she hurried off towards the coat room. 

... 

The Phantom was clearly furious, and Catherine was upset that she couldn't be mad about his anger. He opened the door to her suite with quick, sharp movements, avoiding looking at her. She felt like crying. 

"Well, these evening was just as pleasant as expected." He commented dryly as he shut the door behind her. 

She threw her jacket at the vanity table, trying to vent her frustration. "Can you please just _not_?" she asked, glaring at the worn seat of the couch. 

She kept her back to the Phantom, not needing to see expression when she could hear his fury and jealousy slicing through the air. "I'm _so_ sorry I can't be as accommodating as your precious _Vicomte_." He snapped sarcastically. 

"Jesus Christ." She whispered furiously, massaging her eyes. That didn't stop the tears from forming behind her closed eyelids. She took a deep, shuddering breath. "There is nothing going on between Raoul and I." 

"Really?" he retorted, his voice cynical, "Because he seemed to be firmly wrapped around your little finger." 

Catherine inhaled sharply, a spark of anger jumping through her lethargy. "Wrapped around my finger?" she demanded icily, "What am I, then, Phantom? A common home-wrecker?" Why did her mother's words always come back to haunt her? 

"Well, maybe." He said cruelly. Her heart twisted painfully in her chest, and she was so glad that his stormy organ and French horns masked any music she could've generated. "After all you have got _three_ men chasing after you – the Fool, the Fop and myself." 

"The Fool, The Fop and The Phantom?" she asked, fighting past the lump in her throat to come across as dismissive and unaffected. "Sounds like a bad Spaghetti Western." A tear, unbidden, slid down her face and she resisted the urge to wipe it away: that would just give away the fact she was crying. She refused to manipulate his sympathy by playing on his guilt. 

"Really, Christine, can you approach this from _any_ mature angle?" he snapped. 

"Phantom, if you're just going to yell at me, can you at least save it for an appropriate time in the morning?" she replied, resigned. 

"No!" he yelled furiously, "You are going to listen to what I say and you are going to listen to it now!" She felt a rough arm on her shoulder, and tried futilely to turn her face away as he pulled her around to face him. The angry music shuddered to a halt, and he gently turned her face to him as his first song crept through the silence. She couldn't look at him, instead peaking down at his polished boots. "You're crying." He said, upset. 

Wiping away any wetness with the back of her hand, she broke away from him in determination. "It has been a long, difficult evening. If you feel so inclined, we will continue this conversation later this morning, when the sun is actually up. For now, I would like to sleep." 

"Ma chère...I'm so sorry." He whispered, something akin to fear threading through his voice. He stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her corseted waist. "I should have realised..." he took a deep breath and sighed it out over her bare shoulder. Even now, she shivered from the sensation. "I was jealous, I admit. There is something incomparable between you and Raoul." 

"Angel," she whispered, sadness curling around her chest, "he and I are just friends. Anything more than platonic you thought you saw tonight is just...it's just the remainder of unrequited feelings on my part from years ago." Her heart beat painfully as memories threatened to arise. "Yes, I loved him in a romantic way, but nothing ever came from it but heartache. We have never been anything more than friends and never will." 

"Christine..." he whispered gently, laying his head on hers. 

"I love _you_ , Angel." She told him fiercely, "A few hours with the _Vicomte de Chagny_ doesn't change that. Anyway, however loveless it is, he is engaged to Anais." She sighed and leaned into him. "I'm tired. Can I go to bed now?" she asked gently. 

He stepped away and came around to face her, extending a hand. "The Fool will no doubt come looking for you early tomorrow morning. Sleep in my bed – it will guarantee you uninterrupted rest." 

She smiled, and allowed herself to be led home. She had a lot to think about, and a lot to consider, but there was no better place to think than beside a lake, after all... 

  


* * *

**Chapter 18: There's Only So Much That A Heart Can Take**

* * *

He was losing her. The Phantom watched his Christine silently as she sat hunched over on the staircase several floors below the bio-box. But he did not approach her, nor allow the music to give away his presence. The masquerade last week had damaged them, thanks to the Fop's vicious words and his own insensitive anger. She was slowly but surely slipping away from him, and he was at a loss as to what he could do. 

He slipped deeper into the shadows as he heard the echoes of footprints and faint strains of the Fool's ridiculous theme. Christine did not stir, the Fool's music not penetrating through the cacoon of quiet and sad orchestral contemplation. In fact, neither of them noticed the other until the Fool tripped over Christine's outstretched legs. A violin shriek expressed her momentary fright, but the lull returned, clashing with both the Fool's music and his laughter. "Christ, Catherine! You scared the living daylights out of me." He pointed out. When she just nodded and said nothing, his face shifted into concern. "What's the matter?" he asked. 

She just shook her head hopelessly, curling up into a seated foetal position. 

The Fool sat on the step above her, watching and waiting with a caring expression. "I'm here if you need to vent." He told her gently. 

She scoffed slightly. "Nothing would make _any_ sense to you." She pointed out. 

"That doesn't matter." He dismissed gently, "I'm here for you, no matter what." 

She took a deep breath, and begun: "My mother loved my father. She had real trouble showing it or remembering why, but she _did_ love him. The thing is, love was never truly enough for her. All her life, she wanted to be rich and powerful. It was always her dream to be ensconced within the aristocracy." 

The Phantom wondered where on earth she was going this, but amused himself by watching the confusion distort the Fool's face – he didn't, after all, know that Christine hailed from the upper class. 

"She met my father and laid her dreams aside for a while, his fame enough to placate her. They had me, but she was never inclined towards parenthood. Not saying that she doesn't love me, because she does in her own way. When I was two, my father made a mistake in his career, which basically destroyed his reputation. And, after that, my mother started to dream again. She was beautiful, managed to garner herself a number of scandalous affairs with men of title and fortune. Privacy settlements kept us in our lifestyle, but I could never really understand how my father just accepted it." 

"Why would he do that?" the Fool echoed his own thoughts, but with curiosity where the Phantom was outraged. 

"My father loved her. His whole life was dedicated to making me and her happy. Her games made her happy, so he let them happen without rebuke. He was upset, of course, but his own feelings were cast aside. In the end, he made the move that won her the future she has always dreamed of. When I was six, he took up a job in France tutoring the son of an aristocrat on the violin." 

The Phantom scowled – that could only be the Fop. Still, he wanted to hear the story. 

"We moved with him, of course, and my mother befriended the Comtess and before long was involved in every one of her social functions. When I was eight, she met her new husband, Richard, at a ball. He was...entranced, immediately, but refused to do anything because she was still married to my father. My mother was never willing to _divorce_ my father, but she had always been hopeful that an opportunity would open up for her. Then, a week before my twelfth birthday, my father got very sick. On top of everything, he lost all complex use of his hands." 

The Phantom swallowed down a lump in his throat. That was the worst fate for a musician – blind, you could play by touch; deaf, you could play by sight; complete paralysis of the hands was tragic, but to only lose the finer muscle movements taunted you – you could still do all the basics, but music was nigh-on impossible. 

"Unable to play anymore, he quit his job. The Comte offered him a home at their chateaux for the remainder of his life. I was sent to a boarding school and my mother, with my father's blessing, moved in with Richard. He thought of her a lot in the last months of his life, composing, as best he could. The last song he wrote down before he couldn't hold a pen was titled 'For Miranda'. One sunny day in mid-July, I was called out of school and to the side of my father's deathbed. The last...the _second_ last thing he ever said to me was..." she took a deep breath, a single tear slipping from his eyes. "He said: 'Never waste your time loving someone who does not love you back'." Her voice cracked, and she wiped her face with the back of her hand. 

"Catherine...is this about the Ghost?" the Fool asked quietly. 

The Phantom's anger exploded to life, his fists clenching a growl simmering low in his throat. He was about to inflict some vengeance when his Christine's helpless sob stopped him in his tracks before he had moved more than inch. She buried her face in her knees and took a few deep breaths. "I just don't know if I can do this any more, Greg." She said helplessly, muffled by her legs. "I love him, but I..." she took a shuddering breath. "I told my father I wouldn't invest my heart unwisely, and I've already broken that promise once.." she looked up at the Fool with a tear-streaked face. "I don't know if I can _keep_ doing... _this_ if he doesn't love me back." 

The Phantom's jaw fell slack – she didn't think he...? He swallowed the lump in his throat. How could she not know? 

"Catherine," the Fool said gently, "maybe your father was right. Maybe you should try and shift your focus away to someone who _does_ love you." 

His Christine visibly cringed at the discordant attempt at romance the Fool's music made. She looked at him seriously. "I've already told you, Greg: I can't love you." She told him firmly. 

"I have no clue what you're talking about." He lied, flushing bright red. 

She sighed and scrubbed at her face tiredly. "Thanks, Greg. I did need to vent." She got unsteadily to her feet. "I've got stuff to do. See you later." 

She went up a few flights of stairs, disappearing into the secret passageway by the sounds of it. The Fool turned down the stairs and glared. "I know you're there. You're always around Catherine." He announced angrily. 

The Phantom arched an eyebrow. "Good evening, Mister Mabry." He greeted coldly. 

"I thought so." The Fool muttered, furious. "What the hell are you doing to her?" 

"That, monsieur, is entirely none of your business." The Phantom answered curtly. Who was this boy to come between him and his Christine? He was just an obsessed Fool who couldn't deal with the fact that someone wasn't as impressed with him as he was himself. 

"Can't you see it?" The Fool demanded, furious. "For Christ's sake, Ghost, if you can't love her, the least you could do is let her go!" He fixed a spot two metres to the Phantom's left with a pathetic attempt at a glare. "That's what any decent _human being_ would do!" 

The Phantom's anger exploded to life with a crescendo of organ notes. He slammed the Fool back against the wall, a hand wrapped tightly around his scrawny neck. "I have seen more that human beings can do than you will ever see in your pathetic lifetime. Yet you _insist_ on parading yourself around _my_ Opera House as if you have seen and learnt everything of the world. You're just a ridiculous little boy who's strayed too far from home and been forced to find shelter in a backstage labyrinth." He released the Fool's neck and let him slide down to the floor of the landing, gasping and massaging his neck. "Do not cross me, Mister Mabry – it will be the last mistake you ever make." 

Flinging his cloak aside, he disappeared back into the shadows, wondering where his Christine had gotten to. 

... 

The Phantom was trying hard to make up for something he didn't know about. Catherine closed her eyes. She felt awful – why couldn't she just be sure of things? It'd been almost a fortnight since the masquerade, but she still couldn't manage to shake off the insecurities Raoul had unintentionally brought up. 

She was in love with the Phantom of the Opera, her Angel of Music – but why did it have to suddenly feel like that wasn't enough? Once she'd been reminded of her father's words, it was too hard to be with the Phantom, knowing that he didn't return her feelings. Every morning so far she'd woken up with tears drying on her face and a heavy heart. Talking things out with Greg had helped for a little while, but her turmoil couldn't be so easily placated. She knew exactly what she needed to do, but she was so reluctant: she _did_ love the Phantom, and any course of action in that direction would leave her heartbroken. 

But she didn't really have a choice – the Phantom had already loved someone, the woman from his first song. Why would someone so wonderful waste his feelings on a girl like herself? It was too painful to love him, understanding this, so she had to sever the bonds between them. However, she knew that would hurt so much more than her current wounds, and for that reason she put it off. 

She crawled beneath coarse cotton bed sheets and staring at the empty darkness, thoughts whirling. 

A relationship with the Phantom was highly impractical anyway. He was a recluse, bound to the Opera House as securely as he bound it to himself – her traditional summer holidays at the country-side would be undesirable to him. He dwelt in the night, and her lazy Sunday mornings in the sun of her past would fizzle away to mere memories. 

Her whole life had been planned before coming to the Populaire – she would work for years, earning her passage to life and freedom, before settling somewhere in the sunshine to slow down and let the world drift by. There was no wriggle room in those plans for an underground-dwelling spectre, regardless of how much she loved him. 

Her heart constricted painfully, and she closed her eyes off from the tears gathering. Why did this have to hurt so much? It was easy to make resolutions here, but when she was face-to-mask with her Angel, her resolve crumbled. She, and her heart, were weak when it came to him. If it was at all plausible, she would make the break clean – tell him it was over, and leave his Opera House. But she couldn't – this was her stepping stone to that future she craved, and trying to leave now...it would be even harder. 

Why did he have to possess her, and her mind, so wholly? She thought of him until she exhausted her mind to sleep, dreamt of him, only to wake up and to think of him again! Her feelings always had gotten in the way of her rational thinking. God, and those dreams! They promised so much – a joyous life, surrounded by their music, as he guided her through the dreams she had long since abandoned. 

"Why does this have to be so hard?" she demanded of the empty air. Everything could be so much easier, if her heart wasn't so invested! As the old saying went, if you love something, let it go. That was the problem though, wasn't it? 

The Phantom _didn't_ love her, and that was the root of all her concerns! If only, _if only_ he loved her back, she could ignore all her stupid worries – if he loved her, they could find a way to sort everything out. But he didn't, so she was stuck, with the sharp end of love plunging through her chest, forced to know that anything she thought could happen with him was entirely useless. Any hopes for a future with him in his world was useless, and every time she tried to imagine her old future, the fact that he wasn't in it hurt far too much for comfort. 

She was deeply entangled, nowhere to move without getting injured, but in too much pain to stay still for too much longer. It needed to end, but she couldn't brave the plunge just yet. She sighed, trying to relax her tense muscles. She was going nowhere, and it was tearing her heart to pieces. 

The quiet, gentle sound of the Angel of Music Lullaby drifted through the air, driving the knife a few inches deeper and twisting it a little more, but it worked as it always had – she was asleep within moments. 

... 

"So you're telling me," Christine remarked, pinching the bridge of her nose tiredly, "that mid-season for every single show, the cast and crew get together...to sing karaoke?" 

"Well, not really." Greg answered brightly, "See, it's only the cast that does the singing, and since they're all professionals and we only use scores from the archives, it's not technically classified as karaoke, is it? It's a... what was the term Timmy used? Oh, right: it's an 'impromptu showcase in the name of friendly competition and theatrical bonding'." He recited, reading off the palm of his hand. 

"Did you write that down? Seriously?" she asked dubiously. 

"Timothy told me exactly what to say, but I knew I wouldn't remember it. Writing it down was the logical solution." He answered matter-of-factly. 

"Why is the stage manager so desperate to have me there?" she asked suspiciously. 

"It's tradition, Catherine!" he cried, exasperated, "Unless someone's bedridden with sickness, every person involved with the show goes! You can't break the tradition!" He looked at her with pleading eyes. "Come on, Cath! It'll be good for you!" 

"Catherine." She dismissed coldly. "And _fine_ , I'll go. But I won't have any fun." 

... 

Catherine was having a good time. It wasn't desperately exciting, but she was enjoying herself in a muted sort of way. Her mind was _mostly_ kept off her Phantom dilemma, anyway. Surprisingly, the cast wasn't showing off. So far, the six girls who played the courtesans had sung a hilarious rendition of 'Everybody Ought to Have a Maid', the dancers had reprised a shortened version of their dance from the gala, and most of the character roles had sung an aria from their favourite musicals – with the exception of Mister Peterson who performed a surprisingly powerful and a cappella 'La donna è mobile'. Surprised at this, she'd been drawn into a conversation with him about his training in opera. That explained, after all, his classical, orchestral music. 

"I've heard that next year, The Wallace Opera Company is commissioning an English opera to be performed here." He commented, excitement glowing in his voice. 

"Oh, which one?" she asked, intrigued. 

"Something by Chalumeau, I believe." He answered, his surprise at her interest in the situation evident through the music. 

"Probably Hannibal." She mused, "It hasn't been commissioned since 1986, if memory serves." 

He raised his eyebrows with a start, "You can't possibly be old enough to _remember_ that." 

She barked a laugh at that concept. "No!" she agreed. 

"Then how do you know about Chalumeau or Hannibal?" Peterson asked, astounded. 

"Oh, a few years ago one of the plays I was in with my theatre group made reference to the Opera. Our director played us the soundtrack, so we'd all know what was going on." She replied. "I was interested, so asked my fa—a violinist friend about it. He was involved in the last production, and taught me the Elyssa's aria." 

He arched an eyebrow. "You sing?" he asked, mildly surprised. 

"Used to." She answered pointedly. "I did a few amateur musicals at—" 

"Okay, now the show _really_ begins!" a familiar, despised voice announced. Peterson gave her an apologetic look, and they turned to see Charlotte Giordani strutting into the follow-spot set up on centre-stage. She flung a pile of sheet music at the pianist and took a provocative pose. As the accompaniment again, Catherine's fists clenched by her side, and she glared. 

" _What's the time_?" Miss Giordani whined into the air, pouting horribly at the spotlight. " _Well it's gotta be close to midni-ee-eye-ee-ight._ " Catherine's jaw set as Miss Giordani continued to butcher one of her favourite contemporary musicals. She whined the words and screeched the high-notes with a distinct 'h' audible on the front of her vocal leaps. Her attempts at being provocative turned the song from innuendous to down-right trashy. God, Jonathan Larson was probably turning in his grave from this. 

Finally, Miss Giordani finished with a flat, off-key note and curtseyed ambitiously to the brief amount of applause. She seemed to realize that there wasn't as much as possible, and bared her teeth at them in an expectant grin. "Wasn't that great?" she encouraged transparently. 

"That was awful." Catherine didn't realise how loud she'd said it until Petersen cleared his throat awkwardly and the prima donna turned to her with an outraged expression. 

"I _beg_ your pardon?!" Miss Giordani screeched. 

Steeling her resolve, Catherine got to her feet. "I said: that was awful." 

The collective breath in the room seemed to hold as the tension between the two women grew. Miss Giordani practically snarled at her adversary, "How _dare_ you? Who the hell are you to judge my performance?" 

"Someone with ears," Catherine remarked dryly, "assaulted ears, to speak the truth." 

"You little bitch!" Miss Giordani yelled, "You get up here and say that to my face!" 

Catherine shrugged and walked to the stage, vaulting up there with practiced ease. She crossed until she was only a few feet away from the fuming blonde. "I may not be an acclaimed critic, but even I can tell when my ears hurt." She informed her acidly. 

"You can't judge someone if you can't do any better!" Miss Giordani spat furiously. 

Catherine arched an eyebrow. "I may not be 'professionally trained', but I can spot mistakes in your routine, and they seem to be purposeful." She remarked. "It's true, my voice is nowhere near as high quality as yours, but at least I don't purposely make it sound like an amateur." 

"Prove it!" Miss Giordani commanded. 

Catherine arched an eyebrow, but turned out towards the theatre. "If our audience will permit to sit through two awful performances in a row, so be it." 

"Go on then!" Miss Giordani hissed, before resuming her seat and fixing Catherine with a smug expression. 

Sighing and silently stretching her vocal chords, she searched her mind for a song to sing from the scores that were already assembled and crouched down beside the pianist. He arched an eyebrow and turned back to the pile of scores, selecting the appropriate one and setting it up on the stand. The pianist briefly scanned the intro and began playing. 

Taking a deep breath, Catherine began to sing: " _There's only so much that a heart can take, before it starts to break._ " A lull fell over the theatre as everyone stopped to listen, and she carefully controlled her blush reflex – she'd already warned them the quality of the performance they would be expecting. " _Please don't make me love you, please don't make me need you._ " Her heart began to race as she realised what a bad idea this song had been. It was far too relevant. " _There's no room in my life for something like this. Please don't take my mornings, please don't steal my summers, I know they will vanish the moment we kiss..._ " She shivered, eyes growing subtly wider as she heard the music in the air shift and blend to become an orchestral accompaniment to her chosen song. It twisted around her emotions, making it too hard to try and withdraw from the words. 

When she continued singing, it was involuntary, drawn out by the invisible music. " _I grow weak when we talk, I'm confused when we touch. I should just walk away but that's asking too much._ " A tension underneath the music drew her attention, and she found her eyes drawn to Box Five, and the white mask staring down at her. " _Please don't make me do this, please don't make me want this._" She begged _._ The mask came forward, pulling the rest of the Phantom's face into the light. " _All my dreams were taken until I met you. You're the one I think of, soon as I awaken – funny how the heart tells the mind what to do_." 

She turned her face away from him, unable to look at him anymore, see the hatred quickly growing in his eyes. She wanted to stop singing, but the music wouldn't let her. " _I'm not sure I can go through all the joy and the pain_." _S_ he begged him silently for forgiveness. " _Much better not to let these dreams take flight!_ " 

She turned back to the Box, and his expression was carefully blank. She felt tears prickling in her eyes, but didn't move to catch them. Let him see them – let him see what this was doing to her. " _Please don't make me love you, please don't make me need you._ " She stepped forward, imploring him with her eyes and her words. " _Simplify my life by just setting me free..."_ His jaw clenched, and a deep scowl settled over his forehead. " _Promise me you'll do this...only you can do this..._" 

She sniffed, tears rolling uninhibited down her face. " _Please don't make me love you_ ," she pleaded, " _unless you love me_..." 

The music drifted out, and the Phantom's eyes were wide, staring at her. After a moment, he swept his cloak forward and disappeared into the shadows. She let her eyes drift back to the gathered crowd, only to see them staring at her, some with slack jaws. She cleared her throat awkwardly, not accurately able to remember whether she'd kept to technique at all. "Well...point proven." She said ambiguously. 

Charlotte Giordani was giving her a horrified and outraged expression, so Catherine concluded that her performance had been terrible. Well, that was what she got for concentrating on the words of the song, and delivering their message to the Phantom, rather than how well she was singing. The cast and crew stayed silent, faces shocked. 

You'd think they'd never heard an amateur singer before, she thought bitterly. She allowed her blush to come to the surface and looked at the scuffed toes of her chucks. "I'm...bye!" she said, before racing off-stage. As she bolted down the hallway, she heard speech explode into life in the auditorium. Eyes welling in embarrassment, she quickened her pace and went to her suite. 

... 

Staring at a sketch of his Christine grinning in amusement as she sat in his box and watched the current musical, he let his tears flow unchecked from his left eye. 

He had tried to ignore this years showcase, as he usually did, but his intrigue had been aroused by a powerful rendition of 'La donna è mobile', and when he had gone to see who it was, he was surprised and pleased to note that it was Ronald Peterson – he had always suspected greater potential from the man than he had previously displayed. The title role in next year's production of Hannibal would suit him well. 

He had noted with displeasure his Christine's carefree chatter with him – wondering how on earth she could be so cold, to be able to feel so happy when he was tormented by their gradual separation! Then Charlotte Giordani had gotten onto the stage and proceeded to butcher the art of music once more. And she had been so bold as to demand from her audience appraisal for her insulting performance! 

His Christine had bitten the bait, and he was proud of her, then expectant as she accepted the crow's challenge. He shook his head, bemused, as she declared herself an unworthy singer – if she was trying to garner their shock she would certainly receive it. 

She had shocked them, and for that he was proud. But the song she had chosen cut him to the bone: she didn't want to be his. She had begged him, no less than ten times, to cease his efforts to earn her affections. If not for that, he would have been rejoicing: his Christine had found her voice in the music. 

But she wanted to be free of him. He was at a loss – he had long since been unable to deny her a request, but there was everything hinged on his next actions: if he let her go, she would think it meant he did not...well; if he didn't, she would expect a verbal confession. 

That he couldn't do. He could not say the words. He hadn't been able for too many years. 

Maybe it was better he let her go, then. She deserved someone who could love her like she deserved, and _tell_ her that she was loved. He had to let her go, because she had asked it, but he had to let her know it wasn't because he didn't... He had to make sure he knew that her ultimatum was not the cause of her release. It would be the only way to solve the situation properly. But, how? How could he send her away without giving her the wrong impression? 

He plucked the sketch from the wall and sighed as he placed it back in his portfolio. He would find a way, he simply had to. 

  


* * *

**Chapter 19: Raoul On The Rooftop**

* * *

The phone was ringing. Sighing, she picked up the phone and held it to her ear. "Populaire Theatre technical management, Catherine de Night speaking." 

A familiar laugh filtered through the speaker. "You sound like a disgruntled employee, Lotte." 

She sighed again. It just _had_ to be him, didn't it? "Hi, Raoul." She greeted tiredly. 

"You don't sound excited to see me." She could _hear_ the pout in his voice! 

"I'm not _seeing_ you at all." She pointed out dully. "It's a telephone call, not a video conference." He chuckled softly on the other line and she rubbed an eye tiredly. "Look, Raoul, this is a work line. If you wanted to have a personal conversation, you should have called my mobile." 

"I have." He answered. "Exactly six times..." he added. "...this morning." Unseen, Catherine arched an eyebrow. What exactly was it that he wanted? "It went to voice mail. You have six messages, by the way." 

"Yeah, I left my phone in my room." She answered, "I'm not supposed to take personal calls during work hours." 

The door clicking shut caught her attention and she turned to see Greg raising his eyebrows. "Cath, you know Ray doesn't care if we take personal calls. Stop being a snob." He remarked loudly. 

Raoul chuckled. "I agree with that guy. Who is it? Monsieur Gaulle?" 

"No. That's Greg, another technician. _And don't call me Cath_!" she hissed pointedly. 

Greg ignored that. "As much as Ray gives us leeway, we have to ready everything for matinee. Hang up and tell her to call your mobile." Greg commanded, flicking the amps of the sound desk on. 

"Hey! Tell him I'm a man, Lotte." Raoul demanded. 

"Bye Raoul." She replied, rolling her eyes. 

"Check your messages!" he called before the dial-tone sounded. 

Catherine hung up the receiver and took a deep breath and sighed it out. "Are the dimmers on?" she asked tiredly. 

"I flicked them on when I went past." He answered. 

"Thanks Greg." She muttered. She set the warm-up sequence she'd programmed into the desk up to start and helped him carry the charged up radio-mikes to the auditorium. 

"So, who's Raoul?" he pressed. 

"An old friend of mine. My father used to tutor his brother on the violin." She answered. 

"Old flame?" He guessed, setting the mikes down on the stage. 

"Not really. Kinda. What's the term? – Childhood sweethearts." She answered. 

"Is he handsome?" he teased warmly. 

Catherine scoffed as she got to her feet. She glanced around as she took notice of an invisible orchestra conveying the Phantom's jealousy. Her eyes met his in Box Five, but his expression was carefully blank. 

"I can finish up here. Go call Raoul back." Greg told her. 

She nodded and left the stage, half-hoping the Phantom wouldn't follow her. No such luck: he was standing by the couch when she entered her suite. Repressing both the leap of excitement at seeing him and the flash of annoyance, she arched an eyebrow as she swung the door closed. "Long time, no see." She remarked, annoyed at the bitter edge to her voice. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" 

"May I see you tonight, mon ange?" he asked softly. Her heart ached at the endearment, but she repressed that too. 

"You may." She replied curtly. She sat down at the vanity and looked at her reflection. "And here was me thinking we were past formalities." She muttered, brushing aside a wave of loose hair. 

"I had hoped so too." He answered. She looked at his reflection in the mirror as he came closer. "But I have been neglecting you, and that–" 

"Damn _right_ you've been neglecting me!" she yelled, whirling to face him, suddenly furious. "A _month_ , Phantom! We haven't spoken in a _month_!" She stood and crossed to him, kicking aside a wayward shirt as it crossed her path. "The most I've seen of you is a flash of mask here or there. Tell me how on earth that's supposed to be fair on me?" 

He stepped closer and cupped her face with gloved hands. He looked deep into her eyes with his sad ones and her anger slipped away. She sighed and closed her eyes against the pain. "I have _not_ been fair to you, ma chère." He whispered painfully. "I have not." He added, softer now. "We will sort everything tonight." 

"When?" she asked gently, opening her eyes with a frown. He dropped one of his hands and stoked her face with the one remaining, never breaking eye contact. "Why not now?" she pressed. 

"I would assume," he began distastefully, "the _Vicomte_ desires to spend the evening with you." 

Catherine blinked, broken from a daze inspired by the rhythmic caress by the sharp sounds of his jealousy. "You listened to my messages?" she asked curiously. 

"No, mon ange, but there is very little other reasons why a gentleman would call someone six times in an hour." He answered, disapproval evident in his tone. His caressing hand dropped. 

She sighed and stepped forward, leaning her head on his chest. Slowly, his arms wrapped around her and held her close in his embrace. "He doesn't compare to you, Angel. _No one_ does. I wish you could see that." 

The music shifted, strains of his First Song becoming obvious. Her heart thumped painfully, and she closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain. Here she was confessing that he meant more to her than anyone else in her life, and he was thinking about that other girl. He stroked her hair lightly, and she sighed as she recognized an orchestral rendition of 'Please Don't Make Me Love You' curling through the music. It wasn't fair. Her father had been right to warn her against loving someone who couldn't love her back. 

As the music grew stronger, his hand froze on her hair and his heart thumped loudly beneath her ear. He sighed and released her from his embrace. "I will see you tonight. Enjoy your evening." He kissed her cheek softly and headed to the mirror. 

"I love you." She called softly. 

He froze with one hand on the mirror. His eyes bored into hers for a moment, before a gentle, reassuring smile crossed his lips before he opened the mirror and disappeared behind it. She sighed and wandered over to the bedside table to collect her mobile. Sure enough, there were six missed calls from 'Raoul'. With a sigh, she sat on the couch to check the message bank. 

"Hey, Lotte is me! Raoul, that is, in case you don't recognise my voice. So, you're not answering your phone – don't you want to talk to me?" He laughed. "Alright, Lotte, I'll call you back!" 

"Lotte – Raoul. Why aren't you answering your phone? Knowing you you've probably left it in your room and gone out for a long walk. Call me back, okay?" 

"Okay, it occurred to me that you're probably at work. Lame! What time do you get off? Call me back." 

"Alright, well I'm going to tell you anyway. Anais is having dinner with the ladies tonight, so I booked us a table at some restaurant. I'll pick you up at seven." 

"Me again! So, the restaurant is formal, so don't forget to wear a dress. See you at seven." 

"So I guessed you're probably not going to check your messages because you never do. ...Which kind of makes this message pointless, doesn't it? Well, I'm googling the theatre now, so I'll call you on your work number. Talk to you soon!" 

Catherine blinked at her phone for a long time, before chuckling slightly and putting the phone down. She knew no man who acted more like a teenage girl than her Raoul. After a moment, she groaned: what was she supposed to wear to dinner? 

... 

Dinner with Raoul was just like she remembered – completely ridiculous, but enjoyable for that exact reason. He never stopped talking, but never actually saying anything. It was refreshing to know that with him, nothing was ever important. It was a precious piece of childhood she had lost a long time ago. 

It had been fun, but the whole night, her upset about the Phantom was simmering in the back of her mind. Now that the festivities were over, her darker thoughts seemed to be simmering close to the front of her mind. 

Raoul sighed out the rest of his laughter and looked at her with a contemplative expression as they walked down a cobblestone street. "What's the matter, Lotte?" he pressed gently. 

"Hm?" she asked, looking up at him out of the haze of her thoughts. "Oh, just thinking, you know?" 

"About Oliver?" he asked knowingly. 

She frowned in confusion: who in the hell was... oh! "Yeah." She answered quietly. 

"What's he done?" he asked tiredly. 

"Today, I saw him face-to-face for the first time for a long time." She told him sadly. "I saw him once about a month ago, but it was from a distance and we didn't talk. He said we'd sort it out later." She remarked bitterly. 

"Has he told you he loves you yet?" he asked, frowning. 

She shook her head, biting her lip. "No, he –" She looked up at him with a sharp glare. "What did you do?" she demanded suspiciously. 

Raoul grinned guiltily. "I may have given him an ultimatum about you." He admitted. 

"Raoul!" she cried, outraged. 

"I only wanted to protect your heart, Lotte!" he defended himself. 

"Raoul!" she groaned, massaging the bridge of her nose. "Raoul, you are not my knight anymore. You can't intercept things because you think they _might_ hurt me. My own feelings are my own to protect and nurture." 

"I know." He answered tiredly. He wrapped an arm loosely around her shoulders. "I'm just trying to do what I can for you, considering I can't give you everything you want." 

"You know I wouldn't let you anyway." Catherine pointed out, looking him in the eyes. 

They slowed to a halt, looking each other in the eyes. A moment stretched between them, accompanied by a backing orchestra playing something young and sweet. After the moment broke, he grinned at her. "Come on, I want to show you something." He grabbed her hand and started pulling her along at a run, laughter building as they gained momentum. 

She laughed, voice ringing of the surrounding the buildings. "Raoul, where are we going?" she asked, running as best as she could in her low heels. 

"You'll see!" he laughed, before speeding up slightly. 

They wove in and out of streets, until they came to some old marble building. Catherine tried to squint at the name before he pulled her down a side alley. 

He pulled to a stop outside a door labelled 'staff entrance' and rapping a few times in a precise rhythm on the metal. After a moment, it swung open and a busboy was hurrying back down the hallway. "Off we go again!" 

She laughed as they wound their way up all the cement stairwell, before they came to the top and he threw the door open and nudged her through. She stepped forward, awed. "You should see the sunrise from here." He remarked, coming up to stand behind her. 

"Raoul...it's beautiful." She answered breathlessly. 

He hummed his agreement and wrapped his arms around her as she shivered in the cold wind. "This is one of the many things I wish I could give you, Lotte." He told her softly. 

Her chest ached as the orchestra between them swelled. "I'll never ask you for anything more." She whispered back, before stepping away. "It's late. I've got work again tomorrow." She said nervously. 

"Work on a Saturday?" Raoul asked, his nose wrinkling at his distaste. 

"Didn't we already go over this?" she asked, frowning, "I'm pretty sure we went over this at dinner." She pointed out. 

"Yeah, we did." He agreed. "Come on, I'll call you a taxi." He suggested, offering her an arm. 

She rolled her eyes and took it. "Tonight was fun." She remarked. 

"It was, wasn't it?" he agreed. 

... 

2:27am, a time that had always been his, and Christine was fast asleep, looking completely exhausted. It was a shame to wake her, so he held it off as long as possible. He stood beside her bed, watching her sleep, a slight frown on her face even in rest. 

He leant down and slowly caressed her face. She stirred, eyelids fluttering sleepily. The subtle tones of her lullaby drifted through the air and she smiled at him tiredly. "Angel?" she croaked. 

"Shh," he cooed gently. "You're tired. I should let you sleep. We'll talk later." He said, straightening up. 

She was awake enough to frown at that. "You're putting it off. You've been putting it off for a month." She mumbled sleepily, but managing annoyance. 

"I do not wish to keep you awake." He answered softly, stroking her hair gently. 

She frowned and leant up on her elbows. "I'm awake. Can we deal with this now?" she pressed. 

He sighed softly and smiled sadly at her. "You know I can deny you nothing." He told her. She folded up her knees and he sat at the foot of her bed. 

She was looking at him expectantly with sleepy eyes. "Well?" she pressed softly. 

He swallowed the lump that was forming in his throat and looked her in the eyes, trying to convey all that he felt for her. "If you wish to leave, Christine, I will let you go." He told her. 

The strains of the song she had song a month ago let her know what he was referring to and she gasped with suddenly pain-filled eyes. "You..." she started, turning away from him. 

He grasped her face in his hands and stared deep into her tearing-up eyes. "Christine, you mean _everything_ to me, but there are some things I simply cannot say." He whispered passionately, watching the realisation slowly creep into her sleep-addled eyes. "I will never want you to leave, ma chère. But if it is something you need to do, I will let you go." 

She gasped, staring at him in familiar awe. "Angel, you..." 

"Shh." He cooed gently. "It will kill me if you leave, but you must know that if you want to, I will tender to your wishes." 

She leaned forward, cupping his jaw with one of her hands. "Angel, there's no need." She whispered gently, kneeling up to kiss his jaw. "I do not need to go. Not now, not after this." She added, shifting a hand around to cup the back of his head. He shivered at the warmth, but did not even try to repress the smile lingering on his face. She understood then, what he had no choice but to leave unsaid. 

She stifled a yawn, and he tenderly kissed her fingertips. "You must sleep, mon ange. Tomorrow, if you permit, we will begin your singing lessons." He offered. 

She gaped at him in a sleepy stupor. "You're going to teach me to sing?" she asked dubiously. 

He smiled as he lowered her gently back into the mattress. He sung softly: " _I am your Angel of Music_..." She blinked at him, the strains of music in the air lulling her back towards rest. "Sleep now, my Christine," he cooed gently, "I will see you tomorrow." 

The Phantom waited until she was deep in her slumber before leaving through the mirror. 

... 

Nervously, Catherine tried to straighten out her shirt before she pressed on the surface of the mirror. It slid fractionally to the side with a hiss and she went behind it, waiting for the torches to flick on. Singing lessons! With the _Phantom_! It was all too unreal. He had known, of course, the deeper implications of being her Angel of Music. She should have expected that already. He seemed to know anything about everything! 

A torch sparked to life and she began her walk. Eventually, she came to the gilded ebony door and took another deep breath before entering. The Angel of Music lullaby was curling lightly through the air as the Phantom sat at the piano. She hesitated in the doorway, lost as to what she was supposed to do. 

"Behind the music stand, please Christine. Scales." He said instructively. She obeyed, looking curiously at the closed book of sheet music. She went to open it, but a discordant note in the air alerted her to his disapproval. She looked up at him guiltily. "If you would concentrate on the instructions I have given you, Christine." He said pointedly. 

"Sorry Angel." She said warmly, unable to stop the smile from rising to her lips. She assumed the position her father had taught and waited patiently for the first note. 

"Repeat the phrase." He instructed, before beginning the first set of scales at middle c. She tried to copy as best she could, resisting the urge to wince about how bad she knew her voice would sound. "You're going flat on the third note." He remarked, "Try again." 

She swallowed and tried again, listening out for the note he indicated and trying to ensure that it was correct. He nodded slightly in approval, before moving up to the next set. It continued like this, until she was straining her voice to reach the higher notes. He stopped then and Catherine sighed in disappointment. Her range had been _much_ better than that before. They resumed, this time testing her lower range which, like her upper, had decreased. 

Once they were done with the scales, she was instructed to open the sheet music. Something vaguely familiar-looking, but in French, was laid out in the page before her. She frowned, trying to locate the song in her memory, but coming up blank. There was no helpful title or composer at the head of the page either. She looked at it, before turning hopeless eyes to the Phantom. He was playing the notes an inch above the keys, waiting for her. "I don't know what this is." She told him. 

He didn't comment. 

"I don't know how to sing it." She pointed out. 

"You will learn." He replied firmly. 

"But—" 

"Ignore the libretto for now." He interrupted her. A flash of anger sparked at her concerns being dismissed, which she was well aware he could hear in the surrounding music, but he continued. "Follow the notes on the 'ah' vowel." 

She scowled but looked at the sheet music scrutinisingly. At a press of the key, the first note sounded, mimicked the invisible orchestra as well. She copied, flinching when her voice cracked. 

"Again." He instructed, striking the note once more. 

The lesson trudged on, each individual note being scrutinized and as perfected as possible before she was allowed to move on to the next, linking the notes up as they went. Although she felt like they had been at it for hours, they hadn't progressed past the first line. She was almost in tears when he declared the lesson over and she collapsed unceremoniously on the couch. 

The music in the air lost its strict, authoritive tone and became soothing. She felt a hand on her face and allowed him to wrap her in a warm embrace as the weight of the situation fell against her shoulders. Tears slipped from her eyes as grief twisted in her torso. "That was..." she gasped in a breath, "...the first...since..." she sobbed lightly and buried her face in his shirt. "The first since my father..." she managed eventually, before her aching throat closed up. 

He vocalized a wordless, soothing melody that curled through the air as well. She sat there for some time, wrapped in his embrace and a cacoon of his music, until she could pull herself together enough to let the rest of her grief fall away. 

"As it is clear, I have much to improve on." She remarked calmly. 

"Your vocal talent is natural." The Phantom mused gently. "Lack of use and proper training is the main problem. As already demonstrated, however, when you are dictated by The Music –" the capitalization was obvious. "—your natural abilities overcome your difficulties." 

She frowned at that. "What do you mean?" she asked, confused. 

He began to stroke her hair gently, almost too soft to feel. "Your performance at the showcase." He explained, "It was faultless, because you were an instrument of the music." 

"Faultless?" she echoed dubiously. "It was awful!" 

His hand stilled for a moment, before continuing exactly the same. "Why do you believe that?" he questioned, sincere curiosity in his voice. 

"Are you kidding? Apart from the fact I was _crying_ for most of that song, when I finished everyone was just staring at me with these shell-shocked expressions. It takes an awful performance to make an audience do that!" 

"Or a very good one." He remarked matter-of-factly. 

"Yeah, I suppose." She conceded, "If some _marvellous_ singer just happened to perform the song _perfectly_ , then it's a possibility that an audience will go quiet." 

She glanced up at him to see a smirk across his lips, and she stood up to cross the room. He sighed audibly and stood. "I had a feeling something like this would occur." He began. 

She muttered under her breath: "Of _course_ you did. You know _everything_." 

"Mon ange, mind your attitude." He scolded lightly. "Come with me." He commanded her lightly. 

"No," she replied sarcastically, "I'm going to stay here in the piano room and sulk for the rest of my life." 

He sighed again and Catherine heard the frustration curling through the air. "Christine. I understand this has been stressful for you, but I will not simply lie down and take your spurns. By your own words, I am doing my duty; trying to fulfil your father's promise. If we cannot get past your self-deprecating ego, then the lessons will account to nothing." He stepped closer to her. "Let me show you something, mon ange. Trust me?" he asked. She thought her heart stuttered to halt at the pleading expression in his eyes. Why did it always feel like he was asking for so much more than his words expressed? He extended a hand, an offering, and – like always – she had no choice but to take it. 

He led her wordlessly to his lair, the music in the air singing comfort and reassurance. When he got there, he seemed to produce a computer keyboard out of nowhere and began typing something. A note of warning cut through the air when she looked around for the screen. "Keep your eyes on me, Christine." he instructed. 

Unable to resist the tone of command in his voice, her eyes locked onto his face as he looked at something beyond her head. "I am about to play you a performance of the song you sang at karaoke." He instructed calmly and factually. "I want you to listen carefully." 

She nodded and waited. A quiet piano introduction began, swiftly joined by a heart-achingly beautiful soprano voice. She hit every note perfectly, her voice weaving seamlessly with the orchestration that began in the midst of the song. Catherine felt her eyes prickle, spurned by the emotion clearly expressed by the actress. It drifted to a halt, and she met the Phantom's eyes tearily. 

"That is the only actress in the history of the Populaire Theatre than has impressed an audience to silence." He explained, matter-of-fact tone still evident. "I'm going to play it again. Listen carefully, keep your eyes on me." 

She nodded. The singer began again, the voice wrapping around her heart with a vice grip. The Phantom watched her careful, mismatched eyes boring deeply into hers. Halfway through the piece, he commanded her firmly: "Turn around and look at the screen." 

She obeyed, and felt her sense of reality drop from beneath her feet as her eyes took in the picture on the screen. It was her. The orchestration drifted away with her last high, clear note and she felt her knees buckle. Warm, sturdy arms caught her before she could hit the ground, and the Phantom helped her back to her feet. 

"Do you see now, ma chère?" he whispered softly in her ear. 

"Um." Was all she managed out at first. Trying again, she croaked out: "Yeah. I think I might." 

  


* * *

**Chapter 20: All I Ask of You**

* * *

The Phantom frowned, fingers stilling on the keys at the end of a bar while Christine's voice continued to vocalise the rest of phrase. He turned his head to see her smirking at him, pleased with herself. With a sigh, he repressed his flicker of annoyance and closed his sheet music impatiently. "Well, we can do more in this lesson. Same time tomorrow. Drink more water during the day." He instructed, impatience growing. 

"Angel?" she asked softly. "Angel, what did I do wrong?" 

"You figured out the song you were singing." He answered stiffly. 

"Well, yes, I thought that was the point." She replied lightly, "A little game. You making me go through each line note by note until I figured out what—" 

His frustration snapped his fragile temper. "That was not the point at all!" he roared. His Christine flinched but did not cower. Her shoulders squared and she met his gaze with fierce determination. "Christine, the point of the exercise was to take you through the song note by note until you learnt it. Now you know what the song is attempting to teach you it is entirely pointless." He said, fists clenching as he stood. "I will find you another song for your next lesson." 

"So...that's it? Because I know the song, I'm not allowed to sing it any more?" she demanded harshly. 

"Christine." He answered, keeping a tone of warning in her voice. "You must be able to learn songs note by note, in case one day you're presented with a new song you've never heard before, that the writer hasn't written according to The Music. I'm trying to teach you valuable skills. Learning what each individual note you are trying to express, how that note connects with those alongside it and what that means for the emotion of the song..." He sighed, his bluster fading. "The Music does that for you, Christine. But you still need to know how to do that when The Music doesn't connect." 

Christine's anger continued, regardless of the fact that his was gone. "After _two weeks_ of relentlessly drilling that song, over and over, you're just going to go on to a different one because now I can finally sing it?" she demanded furiously. She ran a hand through her hair in distress, and shoved the sheet music off the stand. "Screw you, Phantom!" she yelled furiously. He flinched, her words like spurs in his chest. "So what the hell happens to me when you can't teach me any more?" she demanded icily, "Move on to the next one?" 

Ignoring the flash of upset amongst the hurt, he arched an eyebrow and said nothing, keeping his reactions out of the surrounding music. She knocked the music stand over and stormed towards the door, yanking it open. "Where are you going?" he asked levelly. 

"Out." She snapped back. "See you tomorrow, _monsieur_." She bit, acidic, before slamming the door behind her. 

The Phantom sighed out his pretense, flooding the room with the sounds of his turmoil. He crossed to the piano, letting his fingers mimic the music in the air while he brooded. Perhaps he should have explained himself better. He wondered at the days after his Christine had left and moved on to bigger and greater things, whether she would lose touch with The Music. He wanted to prepare her for the prospect of songs without it. 

Sometimes he got it into his head that he would be gallant and daring, following his Christine wherever she ended up. His fear stood in the way of that dream, though. He had known nothing but this opera house, this half-life, for too many years – the prospect of being without it left him lost and scared, like the cowering little boy he had once been. 

He had to accept, though, that if he could not follow his Christine away, then he must brace himself for the day when she would leave him – willingly or otherwise. He was bound as surely to the Opera Populaire as he bound it to himself. It was his cage and his shelter. While Christine remained here, he could offer it as a haven, but he would never entrap her. He would keep her safe while he could, but he would set her free when she could stay no longer. 

While she wanted him, he would be by her side. When she no longer wished to see him, he would be behind her. When she wished to leave...he would survive. 

What he needed to get him through a life without her was a life with her now. But he was unpractised, unsure – how did one build a life with a woman such as his Christine when one could not even say the words desperate to be spoken? He could say any other words, gift any other endearment, but he knew the words she longed to hear...as surely as he knew he could not say them. 

He slumped onto the keys of the piano and wept. How did he ask her for everything when he could not offer her what she asked of him? 

... 

The city looked beautiful from her vantage-point on the rooftop. Raoul stood close beside her, ready to offer comfort when she gave first indication of needing it. He had dropped everything to meet her on what she could only think of as his rooftop. After mulling over everything, waiting for him to show up, she knew how silly she was being. 

It had barely been an argument, so why was she running to Raoul like the scared little girl she no longer was? The answer echoed in the back of her mind – she was just as scared now as she had been back then. For different reasons, but just as scared. 

"Lotte," he interrupted her train of thought gently, "where is your coat?" 

"I left in a hurry." She remarked, feeling stupider than ever. 

He sighed and draped his jacket over her goose-flesh shoulders. "Who's to take care of you when I'm not around, Little Lotte?" He remarked lightly. She shivered as the words struck closer to home than he had intended: Raoul always had been the one to care for her, and that's why she had turned to him now, when she was looking for comfort and care. He leant on the railing beside her and gave her a lop-sided grin that didn't quite reach his concerned eyes. "So, tell me all about it." 

"It's silly." She replied, embarrassed. "I've been so silly." 

He chuckled slightly. "Lotte, I helped you the time you were convinced that you would catch the faeries at the bottom of the garden by leaving them bread and honey at midnight on a full moon. Somehow, I doubt this will be half as silly as that was." He pointed out. 

She pouted, feeling her amusement overcoming her shame. "How was I supposed to know it was your domestic staff smoking? I was eight!" she remarked, laughter bubbling up through her words. They reminisced together silently for a moment, before she sighed and leant her head on his shoulder. "We had an argument...about _nothing_ really, but we did argue." She pointed out. 

She could hear Raoul rolling his eyes in the music. "How did I know that when you called me, we'd be up here talking about Oliver Gaulle?" he teased. She elbowed him slightly in the ribs, and he wrapped an arm around her shoulder comfortingly. "So, you argued? That can't possibly be the end of it." 

"It...it made be wonder...made me _scared_ , really, about..." She took a deep breath and sighed it out shakily. "What happens when he doesn't love me any more, Raoul?" 

His arm stiffened slightly around her. "He finally said it?" he asked, shocked. 

"Don't sound surprised, Raoul!" she protested. "Why can't you believe he loves me?" she demanded. 

"I didn't say that." He defended quietly, "I asked if he'd said it or not." 

"Well...he didn't _exactly_ say it, but...I can't explain." She bit her lip, trying to find a way to. "He said enough to prove to me that he wants to say it." 

"Maybe it's an elaborate plot to trick you into falling for him before he leaves you alone and scared." He suggested calmly. 

Catherine gasped, flinching. The pain in her chest felt like an actual blow. She stepped away from her childhood friend and stared at their fuzzy reflection in the frosty windows. Suddenly unsure she turned to him, her eyes filling up with tears, "He couldn't be, could he?" she asked. 

"Oh, Lotte." Raoul sighed, enveloping her in a warm and comforting hug. "I'm just trying to help you. All I've ever wanted to do was help you." He whispered gently into to top of her head. 

She slumped against him, feeling the weight of the world crashing on her shoulders. "I never did really let you." She agreed. 

"You never wanted rescuing." He agreed, pulling away from her. "Let me rescue you now?" he asked, softly. 

She looked into his pleading eyes, seeing a different world unfolding before her. The aristocratic world, the one she had tried so hard to escape. Her mother caring for her, the only way she knew how. Raoul, guiding her through the world into a place where she could be safe and...okay. Maybe she wouldn't be happy, but she wouldn't be hurt. She regained her focus, looking pleadingly into those melt-worthy blue eyes. "Take me away?" she asked. 

He studied her for a while, before sighing and cupping the back of her head with a hand. "I think...if I tried to help you this time, I'd only end up ruining your life. I can see that now." He sighed and studied her face briefly. "I know you just resigned yourself to a world where you'll be safe from hurt, but you wouldn't be happy, Lotte." He kissed her forehead gently. "You're my dearest friend, Lotte, and I've never wanted anything more than your happiness. Wanting to help you is just going to have to play second fiddle to that...for once." 

She sighed and kissed his cheek softly. "I'll thank you for it one day, I think." She stepped away and pulled a face at him, "Until then, I'm just going to be outraged that you backed out on an offer." 

He chuckled as they stepped back up to the railing. "I wouldn't have it any other way." He agreed. 

... 

Tired and scared, but determined, Catherine entered the Phantom's Lair. Her Angel was standing by the organ, watching her with a blank expression. She took a deep breath and started to ascend the stairs to the upper part of the lair. "I acted like a spoilt brat." She admitted calmly. "We'd worked really hard for a long time on that song, and I couldn't figure out why you were just giving up on it." 

He opened his mouth to speak, but she tried to tell him with her eyes to just let her talk. He closed his mouth, an eyebrow arching in the oddly quiet music. 

"I _think_ I understand that you're not giving up on it, that you're moving on because it can't work as it was supposed to." She stopped close to him and cupped his jaw tenderly. "I love you. You have to understand that you just moving on like that made me wonder when you would decide I just didn't work the way you needed me to any more." 

"Mon ange, I..." he began, his eyes and music pained. 

"Shh, let me finish." She requested softly. "So, after an emotional detour with everyone's favourite Vicomte," he scowled slightly at that, and she grinned, before letting her face grow serious again, "I came all the way down here to tell you..." she kissed him lightly on the very edge of his lips. "To tell you that I love you, and so long as _you_ think we still work, I'll stick around." 

She released his face and turned around, intent on returning to her suite and going to bed as soon as possible. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw the Phantom standing still, two fingers touching the side of his lips. She didn't meet his gaze and took a deep breath as she continued walking. "Christine, wait!" he called, his voice desperate. 

She turned to see him crossing the distance between them. He cupped her face with his hands and looked intently into her eyes. "Stay here tonight?" he asked. 

She bit her lip. "Angel, I..." 

"No obligations. I'll sit vigil in the chair beside the bed. Just...stay?" he pleaded, something unfathomable deep within his mismatched eyes. 

She sighed and nodded tiredly. "Yeah, okay. I'll stay." 

... 

Christine woke up in a panic, taunted by unexplained dreams. He wanted to take her into his arms, soothe her troubled mind until she was peaceful, but he would not cross the boundaries they had set. He leaned closer to her as she blinked at him, half-awake. "Angel?" she whispered hoarsely. 

"I'm here, ma chère." He replied calmly. 

She shivered slightly and hugged the blankets tighter around herself. "Sing to me?" she whispered softly. 

"I can deny you nothing, mon ange." He whispered gently. Quietly, calmingly, he began to sing The Music of the Night. Her minute trembling stopped and when he finished, she drifted silently back into sleep. He persuaded the music to soothe his sleeping Christine, and paced the room. 

She had offered a strange bargain. She promised to stay with him until he grew unhappy with her, as if expecting he _would_ sometime. What she didn't quite grasp, was that he would never _want_ to let her go, but he would when she wanted to leave...which, according to her word, would be...never? 

He turned to watch her silently as she drifted fitfully back toward consciousness. She snapped to full consciousness with a jerk and shivered as she slid the sheets off and climbed out of his bed. She stood in front of him, hands an inch away from cupping his face before she shivered and turned away. "What time is it?" she asked hoarsely. 

"Six-thirty ante-meridian." He answered calmly. 

She frowned slightly. "Anyone else would just say 'AM' or 'in the morning'." She muttered sullenly. He chose to pretend to he didn't hear that and followed her out of the bed cavern. 

"You should eat, mon ange." He suggested calmly. 

She picked the Fop's jacket up from a burnt-out candelabrum and pulled it on. "I'll grab something in the cafeteria before I go to work. I have to shower and change, anyway." She buttoned it silently as she crossed to the exit. 

"Christine?" he called, lost. She stopped and turned to look at him, guilt threading through the music. "Did I do something?" he asked. 

She sighed and crossed back over to him. She kissed him softly, a jolt of warmth spreading from his cheek. "I'm sorry, Angel. I'm just a little...out of sorts. I had some weird dreams. Right now, I just need to be above the ground...not in a labyrinth of tunnels." He frowned in confusion, and she smoothed the visible side of his forehead tenderly. "I'll be fine soon. Will we be in the piano room for our usual lesson?" she prodded. 

He nodded numbly, remembering that he had to find her another song to learn. He waved towards the exit, conveying his permission to go. The music between them was sad and unresolved, but she left anyway, glancing over her shoulder before she turned out of sight. 

He sat at the piano and let his fingers mimic the sound of his thoughts. She had been having restless dreams: that much he knew already. But she spoke something of underground labyrinths, and it was that touch of mystery that plagued him. What about them? It was such a broad topic, and he didn't understand what she meant. 

He sighed and took his fingers from the keys. He had a song to find, and he would need to go deep into the underground archives to find something she wouldn't already know. 

... 

"Catherine, are you even listening to me?" 

"Not at all." She answered dully, glancing up across the lunch table to Greg's outraged expression. "Was it important?" 

"Of course!" he snapped petulantly. After a pause and her blank expression, he sighed. "No. Not really. But, still..." 

"Greg." She interrupted tiredly, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I'm sorry, but I'm too distracted to listen to you babble on about...whatever, right now. Can you just give me some silence to think in?" she said harshly. 

He fixed her with a confused and hurt expression, but he turned slightly to speak with the dark-haired dancer who fancied herself their leader. Left to herself, Catherine's mind returned inevitably to her dream of the morning. 

It had started eerily similar to one of the many labyrinth travels she took with the Phantom, but after a while it was clear they were wandering into some unknown destination. When she asked where they were going, he didn't answer. They wandered deeper, until they left the torches behind. All she could see was the Phantom, but she could see him perfectly. Finally, they came to a stop. "Can you find your way back from here?" he asked gently. 

"No." She answered honestly. 

He grinned then and released her hand. "Perfect." He remarked gently. In the darkness, his silver-eye shone like the moon, providing the only light. He turned away from her and began humming his First Song. Out of the blackness, a distinctly female silhouette appeared. She stepped into the light of his eyes, and she was tragically beautiful, and though Catherine couldn't remember her face she was reminded of willowy Anais. The Phantom drew the beauty into his arms and gave Catherine a lop-sided grin. "She has returned. I don't need you any more." 

The beauty laughed then, with a voice impossibly musical, the clear notes ringing perfectly off unseen walls and clanging in Catherine's ears. The beauty took her father's ring from the Phantom's finger and tossed it at her feet. Catherine scrambled to find it, but couldn't feel her way in the dark. When she looked up, the Phantom was holding the beauty in his arms and humming his first song. 

"Angel?" Catherine whispered desperately. 

He grinned and nodded, kissing the beauty's delicate neck, never missing a note. 

"Don't you want me?" she asked. 

His grin widened, and he shook his head. "I'll never need you, Christine." The beauty turned then, and took the Phantom's face in her hands. With a conspirital wink at Catherine, the beauty snapped his neck with a cry of delight. 

She'd woken after that, terrified. She'd needed to reassure herself that he was alive, but when she had gone to touch him, she'd realised she was doing the same thing the beauty had before... She shivered in fear, sitting here at the lunch table, and looked around to see it devoid of people. She glanced at the thumb of her right hand to check her father's ring was still in place and left the cafeteria in a hurry. 

The dream, as strange as it was, brought up an interesting point: the Phantom didn't need her. He had been in the Opera House for at least fifteen years before she had turned up and apart from that other girl, he had been alone. 

Her thoughts circled around the dream and its messages as she wandered through the rest of her working day, removed from the norm by the matinee. It was Miss Giordani's understudy today, and although the understudy was clearly not as trained or talented, she used her voice better than the other woman. 

By the end of the day, she was bored and out-of-sorts. She headed almost instinctively to the piano room, well aware that she had barely anything to drink through-out the day and she was probably going to get a lecture from her Angel. 

He was silent when she entered, playing an accompaniment to the music in the air. He brought it to a close as she took her place behind the music stand. He began scales without a word, and she followed the exercise otherwise silently. She noted, apathetically, that her range had improved, as good as it was previously, if not better. 

They finished the scales, and in the pause Catherine understood it was time to move on with the new song. She opened the sheet music and didn't bother looking at anything other than the first note – she'd only end up getting in trouble for it anyway. A piano note struck and she repeated it in an 'ah' vowel. She heard the Phantom's eyebrow arch, but kept her eyes trained on the sheet music. Two notes, then three, then the whole bar. 

They got through the first sheet before the Phantom took his hands from the keys and stood. She closed the sheet music and waited for dismissal. "Christine?" his voice cut through the silence. She raised her eyes to meet concerned green and silver. She sighed, and let the tension in her body go. He was at her side then, enveloping her in an embrace. He sung something soothing, walking her gently to the couch. 

They sat there for a long time, until the tension left the surrounding music and there was only gentle reassurance. Was he ever calmed like this? Surely, he must have been a child once. "Phantom?" she inquired quietly, nervous of rebuke. 

"Yes, mon ange?" he whispered back gently. 

"Tell me your favourite childhood memory." She requested softly. 

A sharp intake of breath and a painful note in the air told her she'd made a mistake, but the gentle reassurance returned after a moment. "I was young; seven, maybe." He reminisced, a sharp edge of sadness to his words tangible enough to make her chest hurt with every breath. "It was July, summer. In the French countryside, around the _Champagne-Ardenne_ area. My...family took a tour of a vineyard, I was allowed out, wearing my mask, of course." He added bitterly. "But it was beautiful. The vineyard smelt of fruit and greenery, the sun was high and warm. I chased dragonflies through the grapevines." 

Catherine looked up and gasped in a breath at the small smile lifting his lips: he was beautiful. 

He looked down at her and the smile shifted to something different, less carefree. He pressed a kiss to her forehead and released her. She stood shakily and smiled at him warmly, "Dinner?" she suggested. 

He nodded, his expression soft and adoring. 

... 

His Christine was sleeping fitfully, muscles twitching and eyes flying wildly behind her closed eyelids. How he wished he could take her into his arms and keep her calm by himself, but he would respect her personal space. 

A quiet whimper sounded in the back of her throat, slicing through his attempt at calming music. He stopped pacing and watched her, noticing how tragically beautiful she looked with a face full of fear. 

A harsh note screeched through the air and Christine sat up, a scream dying on her lips. She looked around wildly at the darkness, her breath hitching on every inhale. Throwing the sheets aside, she stumbled as she tried to get out of the swan bed. "Christine?" he asked, concerned. 

She gasped as if in pain and started running, tripping over a rough patch of floor in her hurry. "Mon ange, wait!" he called, finally shocked out of his stillness. She didn't hesitate, picking herself up and resuming her run. "Christine!" he cried, desperate. She couldn't run from him, she just couldn't! 

"I can't stay here!" she yelled back, her voice raw and grating. "I'm sorry!" Her panic screeched through the music. 

"Christine." He gasped softly, running after her. She was at the exit, and he had the presence of mind to flick the sensors on before he gave chase. 

Up ahead, Christine flinched as the torch bracket beside her sparked to life, her breath hitching in panic. She looked away determinedly and continued to run. His worry grew when she strayed off the path to half-trip up a long staircase. "Christine?" he asked, throwing his voice next to her ear. "Ma chère, where are you going?" 

"I..." she gasped a breath, tripping again and picking herself up. "I need to get out! I just..." she stumbled, but didn't fall. "Up." She panted. "Air. I need air." 

"The roof, mon ange?" He suggested. 

She sobbed in relief and picked up the pace. He stayed some distance behind, not wanting to frighten or crowd her. As the staircase stopped, he whispered 'left' into her left ear and she glanced over her shoulder and gave him a grateful look. 

Catherine gasped, an explosion of fire up ahead making her wince. The Phantom's voice appeared in her ear again. "Right." He said. She looked to her right and saw a ladder. She went up, more pulling her weight with her arms than climbing with her feet. "Straight ahead." He added when she reached the top. Hoisting herself out of the gap, she raced forward as fast as she could. 

Intertwined with the smell of dust motes and mould was the breath of fresh air, and she knew they were close. She felt like she'd been running for an eternity, and as she saw a stained-glass window ahead she gasped a breath of air. "Push the window open." The Phantom instructed. 

She did so with a relieved sob, and tripped over the sill, landing hands-first in a snowdrift. She frowned and rolled over to look up at the sky. The Phantom stepped into her line of view, a look of concern on his face. "When did it snow?" she asked curiously. 

"Two nights ago. Did you truly not go outside yesterday, mon ange?" he asked curiously. 

"Yesterday?" she echoed dully. 

"It's almost half-past-seven. The sun should rise soon." He explained, kneeling down until his knees were an inch away from the snow. He offered her a hand, and she put one of hers in his. He hissed, "Ma chère! Look at the state of your hands." He sighed and she took them away defensively. He put a hand to her elbow and helped her stand. "What caused this, mon ange? What were your dreams that they upset you so much?" 

Christine shivered and wrapped her arms around herself, stepping further out to take in the view from the roof of his opera house. He slipped his cloak off his shoulders and draped it around her arms. She shivered at the temperature change and gave him a grateful look. He cupped her face with a leather-clad hand and sighed, still waiting for his answer. 

Her face fell and she turned away from him, looking back at the beautiful view of the pinkening sky. "I'm lost in the underground." She started shakily. "I'm lost in the pitch-black labyrinth of tunnels beneath the Populaire." She clarified. It didn't make him feel any better...or less guilty. He had led her into the darkness, and he didn't quite know how to rescue her from it now. 

The music in the air, shifted and twisted to their romantic tune. 

"When it starts, you're leading me through, but something's wrong because I don't know where you're going. It's dark, everything's pitch-black except for you. Then—" her breath hitched, "And then you're gone, and I can't see but I have to find my way out and I don't know where I'm going and it's _so dark_..." 

" _Christine_..." he sung softly, trying to break through her thoughts. " _Christine..._ " 

" _Christine._ " 

Catherine gasped and turned to face him as the music swelled up to surround them. He stepped forward and held her close to his chest. She gasped softly, soothed as he began to sing, the reverberations of his voice enveloping her as securely as his arms did. " _No more talk of darkness,_ " he requested softly. " _Forget these wide-eyed fears_." He pulled away and brushed away a tear, sending a spark up and down her spine. " _I'm here. Nothing can harm you. My words will warm and calm you_." 

She found herself drawn in by his words as much as his voice. He was promising to protect her. 

" _Let me be your freedom._ " He requested softly, turning her slightly to see the weak yellow sun crawl up the pink and blue sky." _Let daylight dry your tears._ " He whispered calmly, stepping up behind her. " _I'm here, with you, beside you. To guard you and to guide you_ ." 

It was too kind, too _sweet_. She wanted to scream at the same time she felt her voice drawn out of her throat involuntarily, expressing thoughts when they came to mind, with no time to filter. She knew she couldn't say these things...they would hurt him. So why did she have to sing them? 

The Phantom was hardly surprised when Christine sang. The song was theirs, a game of both give and take. Her voice was beautiful, flawless like her performance at the 'karaoke' day, and he knew that it wasn't by choice she sung the words echoing in her heart. 

" _Say you'll love me every waking moment._ " His eyebrow twitched in annoyance at that. She knew he couldn't. He knew she knew that. " _Turn my head with talk of summertime._ " She turned to face him, her eyes pleading forgiveness even as they begged reassurance. But there was only honesty in her face, and there would only ever be. Christine wouldn't lie. " _Say you need me with you here beside you._ " He cupped her face, hurt that she didn't already know, but willing to show her if she would let him. Her eyes brimmed slightly with tears and she gasped a breath before she continued: " _Promise me that all you say is true..._ " She turned away and stepped back towards the edge of the roof. " _That's all I ask of you_." 

She wished the song would end. It was all too much. The Phantom stepped up behind her, wrapped an arm around her trembling torso and held her close. " _Let me be your shelter_." He sung softly into her ear. " _Let me be your light_." She sighed. " _You're safe_." He reassured her. Well, she knew that! The Phantom had _never_ tried to hurt her. " _No-one will find you. Your fears are far behind you._ " 

She knew all these things! He had already given her these words, these endearments. Dare she ask for more? But she didn't have a choice, did she? The music spoke for her. 

" _All I want is freedom_." Christine answered, turning to face him once more. " _A world with no more lies._ " Her face softened, saddened, before she turned away again. " _And you, always beside me..._" She glanced over her shoulder with a wry smile. " _...to guard me and to guide me_." She admitted with a helpless shrug. 

His mind spun. If those were the things she wanted, she had to say them! She had to embrace him into her life, rather than making hers about him. She needed to open up to him, like she had to no one else but the Fop. If he had to give her everything he was, she had to give him this life. The life before her next, before she left the Populaire behind. It was only fair. 

The Phantom took her hand and spun her, widely and gently, across the snow-covered rooftop. She was facing him now, with the rising sun a breathtaking backdrop. He sung, eagerly, powerfully: " _Then say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime_!" She inhaled deeply, almost breathing the sentiment alone. He was asking for a lifetime, forever. She felt joy rising – he wanted her, for good! " _Let me lead you from your solitude!_ " Would he truly? Would he finally be able to break the confines of her lonely world and lead her to warmth and welcome? " _Say you need me with you here, beside you..._" His eyes softened, pleading. He stepped closer, " _Anywhere you go, let me go too."_ He cupped her face gently. " _Christine...that's all I ask you..._ " 

If she was to promise him her whole life, she wanted his word too. 

In Christine's eagerness and joy, she joined the song before his last note had finished. " _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime!_ " She grasped his hands and held them securely with her own. " _Say the word and I will follow you_..." 

He found himself with equal fervour, joining his voice with hers: " _Share each day with me, each night, each morning..._ " 

The music calmed, somewhat melancholy. They slid closer together, torsos meeting as he enclosed his arms around her waist. His Christine's eyes were desperate, but a little frightened. " _Say you'll love me_?" she asked, meekly as if afraid of rejection. 

The fact she didn't already know hurt like an actual blow, and he gasped, before returning, reassuring: " _You know I do_." 

Catherine's heart raced, he did! He truly did! It wasn't the words themselves, but it was closer than she had ever thought to hear. One hand on his hip, the other resting over his pounding heart, she felt herself drawn deeper into those mismatched eyes as they inched closer together, words intertwining in perfect harmony. " _Love me_ ," they sung softly, " _That's all I ask of you_." 

Then, after nearly four months of knowing this man, their lips met for the first time. In that simple touch, she felt the world end in an explosion of fireworks and an orchestral crescendo. Falling through stars, they broke apart and met again. His hand came to cup the back of her head gently and they separated again, a new light shining in her Angel's eyes as they slowly opened. 

His smile was warm, beautiful, as he caressed his hand down her hair to rest back on her waist. 

" _Love me_ ," they sung, " _that's all I ask of you_..." 

  


* * *

**Chapter 21: Keep Your Hand At the Level of Your Eyes**

* * *

Greg, concerned, had taken to listening at Cath's door. The Ghost, distracted, had yet to notice. Greg quietened his breath and leaned closer to the door to hear what was being said inside the room. 

Cath giggled. "You should smile more often, Angel." She informed her companion softly. 

The deep voice of the Ghost, warm with sickening affection, chuckled. "Ma Sherrie, you give me enough reason to smile." Greg scowled as he sat back on his haunches. He didn't know what Cath was thinking, the Ghost didn't even know her real name! It was always, 'Sherrie' or 'Ahn' or 'Christine' – he didn't understand why she dealt with it. 

"That's a filthy habit you've got there." He jumped, stifling a cry with his hand. He turned to see an oddly lucid Joe Burkett smirking at him. He gave the young technician a conspirital wink and jerked his head back down the hallway. 

Anticipation rising, Greg glanced once at the door and followed after the older man. 

... 

The Phantom and Catherine watched the door silently as the sound of Greg's suspicion drifted away down the hallway. She shook her head in bemusement and looked back at the blank-faced Phantom. "Should I talk to him?" she asked curiously. 

He looked at her and smiled warmly. "He's generally harmless." He dismissed gently. "Let him keep his voyeuristic ways. He thinks he's looking after you, and it keeps him quiet." 

She smiled and went to sit on the love-seat with him, curling around his side. "I'm surprised. Pleasantly, of course, but still surprised. You've hardly tolerated Greg before now." She pointed out. 

He kissed her quickly on the lips. "I have better things to think about. Why would I waste my thoughts on the Fool when I could think of you, mon ange?" he asked. Her heart warmed at that and she laid her head over his heart, listening to the steady thump. "It's closing night this weekend." He pointed out calmly. 

"Hm." She agreed. "I'm hoping the show, namely Miss Giordani, has improved since the gala. It's a shame Mister Peterson had to leave last week. He really was the finest talent in the..." She trailed off at his amused expression. "What?" 

"You sound like me, mon ange." He pointed out with a grin. She pouted and he kissed her gently on the nose. "If you are willing, Christine, I have made another dress. I was hoping you would wear it Saturday night." 

She smiled gently. "I'll take a look at it. Although I'm sure your taste is impeccable..." 

"You still want to check." He finished, stroking a hand down her hair. "I will bring it to you tonight." He pulled away slightly, "Now, mon ange, I believe it's time for your lesson." 

She gave a mock sigh and got to her feet. Truly, she was eager – since the beginning of her lessons, she'd improved beyond her expectations, in both quality and range. Her usual singing voice was almost as good as when she was connected to the music. Most people would not notice the distinction, but her Angel's perfectionist nature made sure she knew. 

The music had told him he was proud of her too. Things were going excellently, and she hoped it would never change. 

... 

"Cath!" Greg's impatient voice called through the door. "Catherine de Night! Hurry up!" he yelled. 

She arched an eyebrow, unlocking the door as she walked past on her way to the vanity table. He sauntered in and took in the room with a suspicious expression. "New settee?" he asked. She nodded. "New candles?" She glanced at him in the mirror as she pinned up her curls with diamond-encrusted hairpins. "Diamond hair accessories?" 

Catherine frowned as she finished the last of her lip-gloss, "These were a Christmas present from Raoul and Anais." She defended herself warily. 

He scowled as he sat on the couch, "The _Ghost_ is treating you well." He pointed out sourly. 

"Don't start, Greg Mabry." She warned, finishing the buckle on her last shoe. She stood in front of the full-length mirror and took herself in. Her Angel's dress was beautiful, as she should have expected. It was floor-length silk, midnight blue with a laced bodice embroidered with silver thread. The hairpins were from Raoul, but the intricately carved silver pendant appeared mysteriously with the dress. The shoes were purchased this morning, possibly the first thing she could remember purchasing with her own wages. 

"You look beautiful, Catherine." Greg announced breathlessly. Catherine arched an eyebrow and glanced at him. He cleared his throat and looked away nervously. "Let's go. We're late." 

"Boo-hoo. We're missing pre-show drinks." She mocked impatiently. "If you wanted to be on time, you shouldn't have waited for me. The only other girls attending have been getting ready all afternoon. I've had an hour. Don't complain." 

"Come on." He commanded, grabbing her elbow and pulling her away from the mirror. 

... 

" _Comedy, comedy, comedy, comedy, comedy_..." the cast sung harmoniously. " _Tonight_!" 

Catherine applauded, watching the curtain closing on the cast for the final time. She glanced at her Angel to see him sitting with his arms resting motionlessly on the armrest. She frowned, "Angel." She hissed impatiently, "It's polite to applaud at the end of a show." She pointed out tiredly. 

He took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I applauded during the curtain call, ma chère." He reassured her. "So, _monsieur_ Giles is awaiting my...suggestion, for the next production." He told her. 

"Yes?" she asked, confused. 

"I was...curious, about your tastes." He answered. "Tell me, mon ange, what's your favourite..." he paused, shivered and continued: "musical?" 

She hummed slightly as she thought, before blushing slightly and looking at their linked hands. "Disney's Beauty and the Beast." She mumbled, hoping he didn't hear her. A jump in the music betrayed his surprise and she flushed with embarrassment. "Silly and childish, I know. But..." she paused, staring out at the slowly emptying auditorium, "Something about it is so beautiful. How one woman can be so..." she sighed, "How she can love someone regardless of his outward appearance, that's...admirable. It used to make me wish...make me wish _I_ could find someone to love like that." She chuckled and turned to look at him. "But there are no 'Beast's in the real world." 

She was taken aback at the awe-filled expression in his face and frowned – awe? Was he mocking her? "I told you it was stupid." She answered defensively. 

"Not stupid." He whispered back barely audible. He cleared his throat and shifted closer, "And, you, Christine, would you play Belle?" 

She scowled. Why was he taunting her tonight? "That's not funny, Angel. You know I can't." She answered, hurt. "I'm a lighting technician, I can't be in performances." 

"I have upset you." He sighed, distressed. He kissed her gently on the cheek. "Don't worry about a thing, mon ange." He reassured her gently. He stood and gave her a gentle smile. "I have some things to do. I will see you later tonight, ma chère." 

With that, he left, leaving her hopelessly confused. She sighed impatiently when she heard the very familiar sound of Greg's suspicion coming quickly up the hallway. She just wasn't in the mood. 

"Cath?" Greg called, knocking on the closed door. 

She groaned in annoyance. "Cath _erine_ , Greg. I'm at my wit's end, don't start this tonight." She warned. 

He bit his lip and looked at her apologetically. "Come on, Catherine. They're toasting to the end of another great show in the lobby." She stood and he offered her an arm. "Your hair is coming loose." He pointed out as they walked down the hallway. 

She sighed in annoyance and shoved the problematic hairpin back into her scalp. "It's been doing that all night. Stupid hair." She muttered. 

"I think your hair looks good." He answered with an easy smile. "Come on, before you miss the toast." He ushered her quicker down the hallway. 

She could've sworn she heard strains of some intense orchestrations as they walked away. It was so familiar, but she couldn't place where she'd heard it before. Soon enough, it was swallowed up by the manager's theme, and she was hurried into the foray, barely noticing when Greg's arm disappeared from hers. 

The director, already drunk, slurred out some tripe about the honour of working with such gifted people in such a spectacular venue. Her skin prickling, she looked to see Ray and Mister Finn studying her suspiciously, a familiar-looking envelope in their hands. A Ghost's Note already? The production had only just finished! 

A crescendo of orchestral music and a metallic smashing sound cut through the reverie and she whirled towards the entrance of the auditorium. Greg ran out of the double doors, arms crossed protectively over his head. "It's the Ghost!" he yelled frantically. 

Catherine lost the sound of Mister Finn trying to reassure the patrons as she walked towards the auditorium, anxiousness and hurt making her feel like she was wading through treacle. Worst suspicions confirmed, she stopped at the door of the theatre as she saw the carnage inside. 

Every... _single... **light**_! She felt her anger give way to apathy. She was numb. "Why?" she asked the empty air. 

... 

The Phantom was clearing away the designs for the last show when he heard quiet breathing behind him. He turned slowly, shocked to see his Christine standing in the entrance to his lair. He was surprised – why hadn't the music told him she was coming? "Christine," he greeted warmly, stepping towards her. 

He felt it like a physical blow when she took a step back. He stopped, and took her in properly. The hem of her dress was dirty, a tangle of curls hanging over her shoulders – the bothersome pin still stuck within the locks. Worse than the lack of music surrounding her was the dead expression in her eyes. 

"Christine?" he asked, worried. 

"Why?" She asked, her voice tearing through the silence like a bullet. 

He flinched. "Why what, mon ange?" he asked. 

"You _know_ what." She answered coldly. "Just tell me _why_ , Phantom? How _could_ you?" 

He frowned. Were the two fools who ran his theatre so quick to rebuke his suggestions and put her in her wrongful place? The letter had barely been threatening at all! 

She took a deep breath and watched him, kohl-ringed eyes wide open but closed off. "My job is hard, but..." she broke off, frown creasing her brow as she tried to form the right words to convey what she was thinking. She sighed away her stress and turned hurt-filled eyes on him. "So much harder." Was all she managed out. 

Was she worried she wouldn't be good enough? "Christine, I have all faith in your abilities." He reassured her, stepping towards her again. Truly, he knew her voice and saw she could act. His Christine would be a wonderful prima donna in his Opera House. 

Her scowl deepened and she took another step backwards, into the shadows of the entranceway. "So you did it because you thought I could _deal with it_?" she demanded, her voice deathly cold. 

He frowned. She was over-reacting. He had only suggested her! He hadn't even commanded the fools to select her. "Ma chère..." 

"No!" she interrupted coldly, the word hitting him in the chest like a physical blow. "Just..." she sighed out her frustration. "I can't see you right now. I just...can't." With a deep breath, she turned and bolted up the passageway back to her rooms. 

He frowned. He was missing something vital. His Christine wouldn't react this way just because of what he had said in that letter. Something else had happened, but what was it? 

... 

Joe Burket smirked at Greg as they passed in the hallways. "It's working perfectly." He told the younger man. 

Greg smiled in agreement. The plan was perfect, diabolical. _Exactly_ what the Populaire needed to spur its occupants into aggressive action towards their tormentor. Not to mention the sweet bonus of a heart-broken Catherine to comfort. 

Things were about to change. 

... 

Catherine was in no mood to deal with Greg, but hadn't the energy or willpower to tell him to go away. She was curled up on the couch, in her nightwear. She hadn't been bothered to deal with her hair, letting sections of curls come unpinned and falling in a disorganized mess all over her hair. Greg was sitting on the coffee table, leaning towards her as he mumbled reassurances that she wasn't even bothering to take in. The only light was a pungent lavender candle that did nothing to dispel the heady scent of chocolate imbedded in the fabric of the couch. 

"...have expected something like this from the Ghost." Catherine caught the tail-end of Greg's words. 

She looked up at him with a frown. "What did you say?" she asked. 

"I said: you should have expected something like this from him." Greg answered tiredly. "It's just something he would do." 

"How would you even know?" she asked sadly. 

"Cath, I've been here a bit longer than you. I have stories from people who have been here since the beginning. The Opera Ghost has no shame in destruction and making things difficult for the theatre. It's what he _does_. It's his sole purpose in life." He explained. 

"You're wrong about that." She replied smoothly. "His sole purpose is music. Usually everything he does is for the betterment of performance in his Opera House." 

" _His_ Opera House?" Greg echoed dully. 

She ignored that. "That's why this doesn't make sense. The show was over, he hadn't even sent any threats about the next one yet. Yes, there was a letter of recommendation, but it was nothing..." She sighed out her growing frustration and glared at the melting wax of the candle. "It was just...purely counter-productive. There was no reason behind it." 

"The Ghost doesn't need a reason to be destructive." Greg said passionately. 

She sighed and glared at him. "He _always_ has a reason. Everything he does is planned to serve a purpose." She looked down at her clenched fists and slowly relaxed them. "But this...dropping _all_ the lights in the auditorium it just... there's no explanation for it. None. Reckless destruction just _isn't_ him." 

"No reckless destruction, huh?" Greg challenged moodily. "What about dropping a lighting bar on Miss Giordani? Or wrecking Mark West's office?" 

"The lighting bar was to scare Miss Giordani into singing properly. The office was to spur Mister West into action." Catherine explained calmly. 

"There are better ways to do that!" he hissed angrily. "It was—" 

"I didn't say," she interrupted, "that the methods he used weren't over-dramatic. I just said they have reason behind them. There's always been—" 

The door to the suite was thrown open, causing Greg to scream and fall off the coffee table. Catherine just rolled her eyes at his ridiculousness and looked at the intruder. Antoinette Greer stood in the doorway with an electric lantern in her hand. "Miss de Night, Mister Mabry..." she looked at them, "Am I interrupting something?" 

"Just a circular argument." Catherine dismissed, "What is it?" she asked, taking in the older woman's set jaw and slight frown. "What's happened?" 

"Jack Polanyi was found dead about an hour ago." Mrs Greer explained emotionlessly. "Hung from the roof of his cell at the institution with a hangman's noose." Catherine's frowned deepened. Something wasn't right with that. "Misters Giles and Finn asked me to warn you about possible dangers and escort you to a safer room, Miss de Night." 

"Possible dangers?" she asked. 

"The...theatre staff have come to the conclusion that the Opera Ghost is the only possible culprit for the murder. As the lighting technician, they fear you might be the next...victim." Mrs Greer explained delicately. 

Catherine frowned and got to her feet. " _You_ don't believe that." She pointed out. 

"Miss de Night, I'm doing what I was asked." Mrs Greer answered calmly. 

"But you don't." Catherine confirmed. "I don't believe I'm in any danger. But, as for moving me to a different location..." she gave the older woman a wry grin. "There is _nowhere_ in his Opera House that the Ghost can't access. If he's looking for me, he'll find me anywhere. I'd rather not have the bother of being shipped somewhere else when it won't be effective. I'll stay." 

Mrs Greer nodded her head slightly. "I cannot make you leave. It is ultimately your decision. I will be in my office all night if my services are required. Good night, Miss de Night, and _don't do anything foolish_." This last part was shot at Greg, who looked offended, but nodded with a stony expression. 

"I will watch over Catherine. I'll make sure she stays safe." He said. 

"Well in that case," Mrs Greer said coldly, taking a step forward, " _keep your hand at the level of your eyes_." She sung pointedly. 

Good advice, Catherine thought, as the woman swept out of the room, closing the door with a firm click. Greg stepped towards her and held her shoulders firmly. "Do you see it now, Catherine? He's dangerous! You have to stay away from him!" 

She frowned and stepped away from him, glaring at the door where Mrs Greer had just left. "There's so many things about this that are off." She mused. She turned her glare to Greg. "Something's going on and I think you know." 

The same conspirital sound drifted through the air, an ominous undercurrent to the sound of Greg's suspicion. With a sliver of foolishness at forgetting, she recognised it now. 

"Catherine he killed a man!" Greg gasped, astounded. "Who else could it be? You know the stories of the Opera Ghost speak of him being seen carrying around a lasso!" 

"A Punjab Lasso, Greg, not a hangman's noose." She explained levelly. 

"This is ridiculous." Greg dismissed with an edge of hysteria and desperation in his voice. "Catherine how on earth can you trust this ghost? He doesn't even know your name!" 

"What on earth are you on about?" she asked, confused. 

"He's always calling you 'Sherrie' or 'Ahn' or 'Christine'! He doesn't know your name!" he yelled. 

She scoffed, barking out a laugh. " ' _Chère_ ', Greg, is French for 'dear'. 'Ange' is French for Angel." She met his bewildered gaze with a stony glare. "And Christine _is_ my name. 'Catherine de Night' is a legally registered alias." 

He gasped at her. "What?" 

"We've gotten off-topic." She pointed out, ignoring his confusion. "Didn't you once tell me that Joseph Burket used to be able to make a hangman's noose in a matter of seconds?" She asked stonily. He gasped, eyes wide, and shook his head quickly from side to side. She took a step towards him, anger bubbling. "Greg, what is going on?" she demanded, biting every word carefully. 

"Yes," a cold voice announced from the shadows. Greg screamed and whirled, but Catherine was unsurprised to see the Phantom step into the pool of candlelight, his expression as hard and cold as the mask on his face. "Why don't you tell us what you and Monsieur Burket have been doing tonight?" 

"I..." Greg gasped, hyperventilating. He whirled back to Catherine, his eyes desperate. "Catherine we had to make you see!" 

"See what?" she demanded. 

"What a monster your precious Ghost is!" he cried, desperate. 

"I know the things he's done, Greg. I don't see a monster in all of that." She told him coldly. "I see the monster in you and Joseph Burket. Destroying thousands of pounds' worth of lighting, _killing_ a rather helpless man, and all because of some silly vendetta you have against a man you can't even understand." She took a deep breath and shook her head. "You disgust me." 

She turned to look at her Angel, who was glaring at the cowering younger man. She stepped towards him, her apologetic intent weaving through the music. He turned to look at her. "Angel, I'm sorry." She whispered. "I shouldn't have believed it." 

He cupped her face gently. "The Fool is right, ma chère," he answered gently, "It does sound like something I would do." 

"But not without motive." She told him. "Can you forgive me? For doubting you?" 

"Mon ange, there's nothing to forgive." He kissed her gently on the lips. 

Greg's furious voice cut through their haze. "I'll show you your monster!" he declared, sounding ridiculously gallant. 

He knocked her aside as his fingers curled around porcelain and tore the mask from her Angel's face. Her heart stopped beating for a moment, the world slowing to a stop as she took in the carnage. Time sped up impossibly fast as her gorge rose and she dry-retched. The left side of his face... 

It was terrible, sickening to look at. The flesh looked bubbled and aggravated, almost like it had been burnt. Flesh was hanging away from the bone, melted like candle-wax. But within the carnage was his silver eye, looking betrayed. 

After a moment, the pain disappeared and blistering anger was all she could hear. The Phantom turned to the triumphant Greg and struck him forcefully across the face. Catherine gasped as he fell, almost in slow motion, against the back of the couch. Then time raced again as the Phantom leapt towards him, raining furious blows against Greg's face. 

Frozen, Catherine could only watch the horrific scene unfolding before her. Her poor, disfigured Angel raging against foolish Greg's perfection. Each blow was harsh, and Greg's nose was already bleeding, his lip split at least twice, eyes already swelling. 

She stepped forwards and calmly took her Angel's clenched fists between her hands. "Stop." She commanded softly. 

He looked at her, his expression desperate for just a moment before it hardened and he gripped her wrist, dragging her towards the open mirror. She glanced once towards the beaten, unconscious form of Greg Mabry before the mirror closed behind her and she was being pulled down into the Phantom's lair. 

... 

Greg didn't know how much time had passed when he came to, muddled in the head and in so much pain. He moaned weakly and sat up, ignoring his spinning head. He pulled himself to his feet with the back of the couch and stumbled to Cath's...Christine's en suite. Opening the medicine cabinet he pulled out a fairly powerful painkiller and swallowed two pills dry. 

He needed to tell _everyone_ what the Ghost had done, and then he needed to find someone who knew how to get to the Phantom's lair. Luckily, the Ghost had kept most of his blows to his face, so he could walk without limping. 

He racked his fuzzy brain as he stumbled through the corridors. Who would know where to find them? He remembered Mrs Greer's strange conversation with Cath...Christine. He had found his answer. There were still people gathered in the lobby. Someone gasped as they spotted him, and a few technicians rushed to his side. 

"What happened?" "Was it the Ghost?" "Who did this two you?" "Look what that monster's done now!" "We have to find this murderer!" "Where is—" 

"Can everyone just **stop** , _please_?" he yelled furiously over the noise. A still silence fell over the lobby. "The Ghost did this to me. Then he kidnapped Catherine de Night, our lighting technician! Please, someone needs to take me to Antoinette Greer!" 

Talk exploded, but a couple of technicians helped him towards the administration offices. He caught sight of his reflection in one of the mirrored panels of the walls and shuddered. He looked awful – no wonder everyone was so moved. The two technicians left him at the Accommodation Manager's office and he knocked quickly before entering the room. 

"I don't care how you know and I don't care where your allegiances lie. The Ghost has kidnapped Catherine and I need you to tell me how to get to his lair." He announced before she had time to speak. 

She took him in with a suspicious look for a moment, but eventually the state of his face must have persuaded her because she picked up her electric lantern and gestured him to follow her. They took a passage he didn't know as she led him through the corridors at a fast pace and opened up a seemingly normal wall. She gestured him inside and closed it behind them. 

"We must be careful, sir. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes." She instructed harshly, holding the fist not holding the lantern next to her face. "He can be a dangerous man, and I don't truly know what he's capable of. _Hand_!" she hissed furiously. He hurried to move his hand beside his face, feeling like an idiot as he did so. "You must do nothing else but get Miss de Night out. You don't want to incur his wrath. _Hand_!" she snapped again. 

He sighed impatiently and lifted his hand again. It was _tiring_ and completely pointless! What was his hand supposed to do to protect him from the Ghost? 

She stopped at the edge of a lake – though it was more like a flooded corridor. "I will take you no further. Follow the current and you will find his home." 

He groaned and toed off his boots. Wading in water through dress slacks was a useless hassle. He threw his tuxedo jacket aside and tossed his bow-tie beside it. "Thank you." He told the middle-aged woman. 

He stepped into the water and jumped when Mrs Greer gripped his bicep. " _Hand_ , sir! And for God's sake, don't do anything stupid!" 

  


* * *

**Chapter 22: The Ultimatum**

* * *

Catherine didn't know what the hell was going on. The Phantom had been furious as he had pulled her along, ranting and raving in song about things she couldn't understand. When they had gotten here, he'd disappeared furiously into the bed cavern and left her here on the edge of the lake to try and figure out what the hell was going on. 

With an annoyed sigh she leant warily by the lake and washed Greg's blood off her wrist and hands. A change in music alerted her to the Phantom's presence and she looked up as he watched her warily, tossing his ruined gloves into the lake. 

She suddenly didn't know if she should trust him, didn't know his intentions, or what he was capable of. She stood, mentally cursing when she heard words coming out of her mouth. Music be damned, it looked like it was going to be a sung argument. " _Have you gorged yourself at last in your lust for blood_?" she demanded. The eyebrow on the right side of his face (the only one he had, she noticed) arched slightly, but his mouth was a grim line. " _Am I now to be pray to your lust for flesh_?" 

His eyebrow relaxed and he stepped towards her. Instinctively, she gasped and took a step back. His jaw set and he closed the distance between them. " _This fate which condemns me to wallow in blood_ ," he spoke it bitterly, as if the words didn't settle well in his mind, " _has also denied me the joys of the flesh_." She looked up at him, her eyes instinctively going to his hidden face. " _This face, the infection which poisons our love..._ " 

Catherine took a deep breath and sighed it back out, meeting his gaze weakly. He sighed and stroked her hair tenderly. 

" _This face which earned a mother's fear and loathing_ ," he sung sadly. She sighed, disappointed in her own reactions. She could see now that his face wasn't so bad. The flesh was solidified, permanently frozen in its deformity. " _A mask: my first unfeeling scrap of clothing_." She felt a wave of pity wash over her and met his eyes. She'd had loving parents, but he clearly never had. 

His eyes hardened as he took in her expression. " _Pity comes too late_!" he growled, clenching his fist as he dropped it from her hair. " _Turn around and face your fate_! _An eternity of this_!" He thrust a finger towards the marred side of his face, and his anger seemed to deflate. " _Before your eyes..._ " 

She took another deep breath and lifted her hands, running soft fingertips over first his ridged forehead, down his misshapen eye-socket and resting on his melted cheekbone and cupping his perfect jaw-line. His breathing was laboured, tense. " _This haunted face_ ," she sung calmly, " _holds no horror for me now_." He turned his head away from her and she brought a hand down to rest on his chest. He was so angry, so scorned by the world, he couldn't even try to let her in. " _It's in your soul that the true distortion lies_." 

He opened his mouth to say something, but a scowl formed. " _Wait, I think my dear, we have a guest_!" The air was charged with the screeching strings of Greg's suspicion. The Phantom turned towards the portcullis. " _Sir_ ," 

"Greg." Catherine groaned. Why did he have to interfere? Would he never learn to just let things be? 

" _This is indeed an unparalleled delight._ " The Phantom continued. She groaned silently: sarcastic Phantom, that was exactly what she needed. " _I had rather hoped that you would come,_ " She turned to see a panting and bruised Greg leaning heavily against the portcullis. He gave her a pleading expression. "A _nd now my wish comes true,_ you have truly made my night." The Phantom bit icily. 

She fixed Greg with a stern glare. "Let it go." She told him pointedly. 

" _Free her_!" He cried desperately to the Phantom. If he was aware of singing, he wasn't surprised by it. " _Do what you like, only free her! Have you no pity_?" 

The Phantom sneered at her mockingly. " _Your lover makes a passionate plea._ " 

She glared at Greg, wishing he wasn't so desperate to be chivalrous. " _Please, Greg, just leave it_." 

" _I love her_!" Greg yelled at the Phantom. Catherine visibly flinched – was he _insane_? " _Does that mean **nothing**?! I **love** her! Show some compassion_!" 

" _The world showed no compassion to me_!" The Phantom thundered. 

Greg flinched, but continued without intimidation. " _Christine, Christine, let me see her._ " 

" _Be my guest, sir._ " The Phantom answered icily. He crossed to a lever and pulled it. She watched warily as the portcullis rose and Greg stepped through, looking around the lair with obvious confusion. The Phantom entered the lake, heading towards a distracted Greg. " _Monsieur, I bid you welcome. Did you think that I would harm her_?" Greg watched him fearfully, taking a step backwards. The Phantom ducked, dipping his hand into the water. She wondered idly whether the Phantom was really childish enough to _splash_ Greg. " _Why would I make her pay for the sins which are **yours**_?" 

Catherine gasped, rushing towards them. During his line, the portcullis had come down, distracting Greg and giving the Phantom time enough to throw a noose around his neck. She stopped, scared, at the edge of the water. She hated water, but she couldn't just stand and watched Greg be choked for trying to save her! 

" _Order your fine horses now! Raise up your hand to the level of your eyes_!" the Phantom mocked his captive ruthlessly, pulling the rope through one of the holes. " _Nothing can save you now...except perhaps Christine_!" She gasped. He wasn't... " _Start a new life with me! Buy his freedom with your love!_ " Her fists clenched and she glared at him. " _Refuse me and you send your lover to his death. **This** is the choice, **this is the point of no return**_!" 

She scowled, her eyes filling uselessly with water. " _The tears I might have shed for your dark fate..._" She glared helplessly at the Phantom as his jaw set in determination. " _Grow cold...and turn to tears of **hate**_!" 

" _Christine! Forgive me! Please forgive me_!" Greg cried desperately. She glanced at him and shook her head before returning her own attention to the Phantom to sing a new plea. " _I did it all for you and all for nothing_!" 

Going over the top of him, she cried to the Phantom: " _Farewell my fallen idol and false friend_!" But he wasn't listening to either of them and spoke over her as she tried to make him see. " _We had such hopes and now those hopes are shattered_." 

"Too late for turning back. Too late for prayers and useless pity." The Phantom growled, his fingers tightening around the rope. 

Her attention was divided as the two men fought for attention. Greg pleaded with her, singing once again: " _Say you love him and my life is over_ ..." 

But the Phantom's words were harsh and demanding: " _All of your cries for help. No point in fighting_!" 

They reached a clashing harmony, with Greg singing: " _For either way you choose, he has to win_!" While the Phantom growled at him: " _For either way you choose, you cannot win_!" 

The Phantom turned wild, blazing eyes on her and she felt lost. So lost. " _So do you end your days with **me**? Or do you send him to his **grave**_?!" he demanded, punctuating each shout with a tug at the rope. _Oh, Phantom_ , she thought tiredly. Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to make this choice such a wretched ultimatum? 

Her sympathy for the younger man nearly evaporated when he spat the words: " _Why make her **lie** to you save me..._?" 

The pain in the Phantom's mismatched eyes and the harsh tightening of the rope brought her to a heart-breaking conclusion: the Phantom _believed_ Greg. After all they'd been through the Phantom still didn't trust that she loved him! She shouldn't be crying over that, but she was. How selfish was she? That she could cry for herself but not for the threat on Greg's life. 

Oh, damn her Angel! He had made her believe it would never come to this! He had promised that _she_ could set the terms of this relationship, that she would _never_ feel pressured into doing something she didn't want. He'd... Her anger sparked and her fists clenched. He'd deceived her! 

" _Angel of Music, you deceived me_!" She cried, trying to use all the power in her voice she could muster. 

But the other two seemed to have the same idea. The Phantom sung: " _Past the point of no return_... _the final threshold_!" 

Greg fought against the noose, trying to step towards her. " _Christine, say no! Don't throw your life away for **my** sake_!" 

" _Why do you shun mercy_?" she cried desperately, taking another step forward. Her bare toes hit the water and she shivered in fear. 

" _His life is now the price that you must **earn**_!" the Phantom growled, yanking Greg back against the portcullis with the rope. 

Greg slumped, hopeless against the unyielding metal, tears leaking from his eyes. " _I fought so hard to free you_..." 

The music slowed, the cacophony of emotions fading away until it was just her and her Angel. " _Angel of Music_..." she sung quietly, trying one last plea before she gave the cause up for hopeless. 

Her Angel slowed, watching her with all his attention for the first time since Greg had appeared. His song drifted to an end as he registered the tears running down her face. " _You've past the point of no return..._ " 

" _You deceived me_." She finished. She sobbed in a breath and looked him in the eye, trying to find a glimmer of the man she had trusted all this time. "I gave you my mind blindly." She whispered, helpless to stop another few tears sliding from her eyes. Why must she be so weak? She knew what she had to do. 

"You try my patience." The Phantom snapped icily, turning away from her to look at his ensnared. "Make... your... **choice**!" he growled, yanking the noose viciously. 

Greg gagged again, struggling. His eyes pleaded with her, just to say no and forget about him. But he never knew. He never knew that this ultimatum was never about him. It had never been about saving Greg's life. It had been about giving something over to a man who wasn't acting like her Angel. "I'm sorry." She mouthed to him. 

She looked back at her Angel. Just the unmasking of his face, and he'd turned mad. How hurt had he been in his past? Taking a deep breath, she stepped into the surprisingly warm water, coaching herself along mentally. " _Pitiful creature of darkness..._ " she sung slowly. The Phantom recoiled, ever so slightly. She sniffed her tears slightly and continued towards him, shivering at the feel of _something_ brushing against her bare feet. " _What kind of life have you know?_ " She glanced down at her thumb, her father's ring glinting purposefully on her finger. She took a deep breath and slid it from her finger. " _God give me courage to show you..._ " she stepped to him and took one of his hands from the rope. " _You are not alone_!" She slipped the ring onto his left ring finger and prayed he knew the significance. 

He gasped as the music swelled, and dropped the rope. She reached towards him and drew his face into a fierce kiss. So much like the one on the roof-top, it felt like the world was ending. But this time, it felt like there was nothing to remain in its place. She gasped and broke away, staring at his open eyes. 

There was so much pain in them, but there was also the love she knew they shared. He cupped the back of her head and kissed her passionately on the lips. 

When they separated, she tried to tell him with her own: _please, please understand_! 

The moment was slowly invaded by a devious orchestration and distant voice singing: " _Track down this murder, he must be found_!" 

She gasped. "Greg...what did you do?" she demanded, turning her head to see him struggling out of the noose. 

"Take her! Forget me! Forget all of this!" The Phantom growled to Greg, stumbling up the embankment to his lair. _What the hell_? Catherine thought, upset. "Take the boat, swear to me never to tell the secrets you know of the _angel_ in hell." Shaking her head in confusion, she rushed after him and put a hand on his arm. He whirled on her, eyes blazing in fury. " _Go **now**! Go now and leave me_!" He thundered. 

She stumbled back, shocked. He wanted her to _leave_? He spent all this time giving her an ultimatum and he was counter-acting her decision? The answer came to her like a blow to the chest: maybe he didn't want her after all. Maybe he didn't love her. 

She watched him stumble into the bed cavern with a hollow heart. Greg was pulling her away, back towards the boat. "Christine, we have to go!" Numb, she allowed herself to be sat in the boat as Greg unsteadily pushed it away from the bank. She could only watch the lair slowly disappear as she was taken away, against her will but powerless to stop it. Her Angel didn't want her. 

She gasped, a stab of pain starting when she heard her Angel's sad, broken voice. " _Masquerade...paper faces on parade...masquerade...hide your face so the world will never find you_..." She saw him slowly exiting the bed chamber, and their gaze met across far too much water. His expression was raw, and filled with pain. " _Christine, I love you._ " 

She gasped, unprepared for the onslaught of pain that flooded through her at his words. He loved her! Why the hell was she leaving then. They turned a corner and suddenly, she couldn't see him any more. She whirled on her silent companion. "Greg, I have to go back!" she said breathlessly. 

He stopped, turning to stare at her with horrified eyes. "What? Cath...Christine, he told you to leave!" 

"It doesn't matter." She answered, getting shakily to her feet. "He loves me, Greg. I can't leave him. I'll never be able to let him go." 

"Then I should take you away now. Prevent you from making this mistake." He said, readjusting his grip on the gondola pole. 

She put her hands over his. "Greg, you can't save me." She told him. 

"Christine, I love you." He told her resolutely. "That means I have to try." 

"Greg." She interrupted softly, looking at him with pity. "You can't love me. You don't know who I am." 

"Of course I do!" He snapped back defensively. "You're..." 

"No, you don't." She interrupted calmly. She took a deep breath. " 'Never waste your time loving someone who can't love you back'. The wisest advice I've ever gotten, and now it's time to pass it on." 

She turned and went to step off the boat when she felt an iron-grip on her arm. "Christine, I love you! I can't just leave you behind!" 

"Greg. If you love me, let me go." She told him pointedly. 

He sighed, deflating as he released her arm. "This is a mistake." He said, conceding. 

She smiled ruefully. "Probably." She agreed. On that, she stepped off the boat and splashed into the water. Her fear didn't matter any more, she had her Angel, the man who loved her, to get back to. As she walked, she sang their song. " _Say you'll share with me, one love, one lifetime._ " She rounded back into view of the lair, and the Phantom was watching her tearily from a vantage point near the portcullis controls and other ropes. " _Say the word and I will follow you_." She continued, wrapping her hands around the metal slats as she pressed closer to the blockade, eager to be with him again. " _Share each day with me, each night, each morning..._ " 

He smiled at her softly. " _You alone can make my song take flight..._ " Her smile at his tenderness faded as the music swelled ominously. " _It's **over** now, the Music of the Night_!" he yelled painfully, slicing a sword through the ropes. 

"No!" she screamed as curtains descended from the cavern roof and separated them. Desperate, she yelled again as the music beyond started to draw to a close. She put her hands underneath the slats and pushed furiously, gasping in relief when they lifted. Relieved, she dropped them and crouched closer to the water, somehow managing to manoeuvre herself underneath the small gap she could manage. 

Caught behind the curtain quickly growing heavy with water, she tried to listen out for sounds from her Angel as she struggled to find the gap. Finding none, she heaved the curtain up and over her head and ducked underneath the dripping fabric. 

...the lair was empty. Gasping in pain at the fading notes of music, she shook her head in denial and raced as fast as she could through the water to the bank. "Angel!" she yelled, desperate. There was no answer, and she gasped as the notes continued to drift away. Her eyes fell on a purposefully placed table in front of the organ and she raced up to it, hoping the paper was a note. 

What she saw there shattered her heart and her illusions. Lying atop a short pile of sheet music was her father's ring and a black-beribboned red rose. Screaming in fury, she picked up the ring and hurled it as hard as she could towards the lake. It landed somewhere with a faint plunk and she sobbed as she picked up the sheets of music with trembling hands, the rose falling to the floor. 

She gasped and dissolved into tears. 

_No One Would Listen_

_By Erik Leroux_

She crumpled to her knees, lost. 

  


* * *

**Epilogue: Learn To Be Lonely**

* * *

Vicomte Raoul de Chagny closed the door of the Bedlam Asylum for the Mentally Ill's music room. He could remember every moment of the last week with frightening clarity. First, the unannounced visit of Lord Richard Hetherington to the de Chagny townhouse in Paris. 

He had come back from a disheartening couple's therapy session with Anais to find Philippe glaring at him furiously. "He's here to see you!" Philippe hissed in angry French. "He's taken over the drawing room with his pacing and he won't tell me a blasted thing!" 

"Who?" Raoul asked, confused. He had just found out that Anais had been unfaithful through-out the whole of their engagement, and was in no mood to deal with nonsense. 

"Don't drag me into this. Get in there and sort out whatever that blasted commoner Christine Daae has done now!" Philippe snapped. 

Sure enough, Raoul had gone running to the drawing room. After an intense conversation with her husband, he had telephoned Lady Daae-Hetherington and found out the particulars of the situation. He had made plans to go to England immediately. Anais had been furious. Their engagement was called off but even the grandmother who came up with the idea was relieved about it. 

Six days later, with most of his family's blessing he was on a plane to Heathrow. 

Now, he stood in the middle of an insane asylum, watching his Little Lotte sitting at a piano. "Lotte?" he asked warily. She froze, but did not say anything. She began an achingly sad tune on the piano, and he stepped forward. "Oh," he sighed, stepping up behind her. "They say Little Lotte's finally let her mind wander away." He pointed out sadly. 

Lotte ignored him, humming along to the piano accompaniment instead. 

They had warned him, of course, the doctors with their holier-than-thou attitudes. " _She's not verbally responding to anything. There's a physical reaction, of course, which means she's lucid. She's being completely unco-operative. We can't get her away from the piano. When we tried she nearly tore off her fingernails trying to claw her way out of her room._ " 

"It's okay, Lotte." He said gently. "You don't have to talk to me, just yet. But I've got hours. I can wait." She glanced at him out of the side of her eyes, before returning her eyes to the sheet music and playing what was written there. He reached out to touch a sheet, only to have his hand viciously caught in her grip and flung away. "Okay, Lotte. I won't touch them. I just wanted to see what you were playing." He leaned closer, deciphering the elegant handwriting. "No One Would Listen by Erik Leroux?" he read. 

Lotte's sharp gasp alerted him to his mistake and he hurried an apology. She went back to ignoring him. 

He looked down at her, chest aching. "Lotte, your mother put you in here because you were talking about hearing music. Then you babbled about ghosts and angels and underground labyr—" 

Lotte stabbed a sour chord out, glaring across at him. She resumed playing from the beginning and he sighed, out of ideas. 

He did gasp when she began to sing. 

" _Child of the Wilderness, born into emptiness...learn to be lonely. Learn to find your way in darkness_." 

Her voice was haunting, but undeniably beautiful. He, with his little knowledge of music, could find no flaw in her performance. It physically hurt to listen to her, but he didn't want to stop. 

" _Who will be there for you? Comfort and care for you? Learn to be lonely. Learn to be your one companion_." He knelt down by her side, looking into her pain-filled eyes. 

" _Never dreamed out in the world...there are arms to hold you. You've always known your heart was on its own._ " Raoul found himself crying as well, as he watched tears slide unchecked down his Little Lotte's pale, gaunt face. " _So laugh in your loneliness, Child of the Wilderness. Learn to be lonely. Learn how to love life that is lived alone_." 

Raoul saw the break in the vocals and rested a hand on his childhood sweet-heart's knee. "Lotte. Stop, please. You're breaking my heart." She continued playing, never taking her eyes off the sheet music. "You don't have to be alone, Lotte. _I'll_ take care of you. I'll do anything you ask of me. I'll be anything you need me to be, just _please_ Lotte. Stop playing this song. Step away from the piano and _talk_. _Talk_ to me, Lotte." She didn't even pause as she moved onto the final sheet. "Lotte, I can't save you if you don't let me into your ivory tower." He waited, but she restarted the instrumental interlude. She was listening, then. "You don't want me to save you, do you Lotte? Am I too late?" 

She glanced at him, before flicking her eyes quickly back to the sheet music. 

"Someone's hurt you too much, and now you'll never come out, will you?" he asked, hopeless. "You don't want help. You just want to stay where things are beautiful, where no one thinks your crazy...where you can be _happy_ , and safe and loved." 

He withdrew his hand. "I know you want me to go. But remember, Lotte – if you forget everything, remember this: I will always be waiting to save you." 

He turned to walk away, stopping to watch her from the doorway as she sung the last line, heart-breakingly beautiful. 

" _Learn to be lonely. Life can be lived...life can be loved...alone..._ " 

She raised her eyes to his and removed her fingers from the keys. 

* * *

**TEASER:**

**'Till I Hear You Sing**

* * *

That night he dreamt of Christine's wedding. The Fop stood glowing at the altar, eyes only for the vision that was his Angel. Her eyes never looked up from the bouquet of white lilies in her hands, even as she repeated the vows. And when the Fop went to kiss her, make official their union, he could have sworn they weren't tears of happiness in her eyes. 

He woke with a whimper dying in his throat and tears in his eyes, staring hatefully into the air that taunted him with the Angel of Music Lullaby. Furious, he stood, storming to the organ and sitting down forcefully on the seat. His fingers punched the keys, trying in all his desperation to block out the hateful music that taunted him so completely. 

Eventually, the Music succumbed to the force of his will, harmonizing with his thundering organ notes. His thoughts and feelings had no words, in any spoken language, merely a crash of notes that twisted and deformed the air. Bar after bar of music thundered through the pipes, and he didn't falter until Christine's voice sprung up beside his ear, as clear as if she was sitting right beside him: " _Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known_?" 

He gasped in pain, whirling in his seat, expecting to see Christine standing beside him with a pitying expression. He could picture the sight so carefully that for a moment he actually believed his Angel was standing beside him. When reality struck, he let out a scream that tore his throat until he could taste blood on his tongue. 

He clamped his jaw shut fiercely and picked up the music where he left of. When Christine's music infiltrated his song, or the memory of her voice teased at his ear, he only played with renewed vigour. 

He had no clue how long he played for. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he acknowledged Antoinette's voice as it pleaded with him: "Please Erik! Come away from the organ!" He ignored it, because her voice was trying to interrupt his music. 

His fingers bled like they hadn't in years, even calluses worn away. He didn't react, merely played the music on bloody keys. He didn't know when his eyes stopped working, nor when he lost all feeling everywhere but his aching chest and screaming fingers. He knew the moment when he could hear Christine's voice in his mind, whispering painfully: "Oh, Angel, what have you done?" 

An eternity later he felt hands on his shoulders, yanking him away from the instrument. He struggled, fingers desperately searching the keys, fighting against the arms around his torso to get back to the organ before the Lullaby could come back. Weak, cracking whimpers tore from his throat and he fought against the grip that held him steady. He had to get away, before the beating began. He felt a sharp pain in his hands and he screamed with a torn throat. 

" _Mama! Laissez-moi tranquille_!" He screamed, trying to fight away from Père's hands. He didn't know what he had done to deserve another beating, but he was so tired. He just wanted to sleep, and not wake up again. He didn't want to be hurt again. Sometimes she would forgive him if he begged enough... " _Maman! Désolé! Désolé, Mama, Désolé..._ " he repeated the words until his aching throat could produce no more than a bare whisper of breath. 

The last words he heard before he succumbed to the darkness sounded nothing like his mother's or Père's. "Bloody hell, Erik! Look at your hands!" 


End file.
